Recovery In Rivendell
by Budgielover
Summary: Chapter 30. The Lord of Rivendell summons his host to ride against the approaching Ringwraith as Elladan and Elrohir arrive too late to defend the hobbits.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:   _The Lord of the Rings_ and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien.  These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. 

(Author's Note:  After the last several stories, I thought something lighter in vein and style might be in order.  So much action and angst is exhausting…)  

Chapter 1:  Battle Tactics and Deals Struck      

       Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chief of the Rangers and heir to the throne of Gondor, girded himself for battle.  Focusing inward, he called upon his years of studying strategy, his training in the art of war, his knowledge of his opponent.  He stiffened his spine, steeled his resolution, and picked up the covered tray from the anxious hobbit who held it up to him.

       "He says he don't want it, sir.  Not even the fruit.  I tried an' tried, told him that Lord Elrond said he had to, but he won't."  Sam surrendered the tray gladly, relieved that someone else would try to get his master to eat.  Sam knew himself to be incapable of summoning the forcefulness necessary to make Frodo obey Lord Elrond's orders.  Just the sight of Frodo lying so still in that great wide bed, his pale face drawn in pain, was enough to melt Sam's resolution into a quivering puddle.  His master had never had a proper hobbit's appetite, but since his wounding, Frodo's wide streak of stubborn was more evident than ever.

       Only a week had passed since the Master of Rivendell had drawn the shard of Morgul-blade from Frodo's shoulder, and instead of being permitted to recover quietly, Frodo had been subjected to yet more activity and demands.  He was suffering; in pain, weak from loss of blood, frightened about the responsibility he had assumed, and simply exhausted.  The last thing he wanted to do was eat, and eating was what he most needed to do.

       "Have you tried his favorites?  How about a mushroom omlette?"  The Ranger briefly uncovered the tray to inspect its contents.  A stack of sweetcakes, thick with butter and honey, steamed gently.  Next to it, grilled sausages wafted their aroma up to him.  A small bowl of late strawberries, raspberries and blackberries sprinkled with sugar sat next to the sausages.  In another bowl, sautéed mushrooms were scrambled with eggs and cheese, onions and green peppers, with toast triangles for scooping.  Water, tea and a large mug of milk rounded out the breakfast.  Sam regarded the tray with dismay; it wasn't enough to keep a hobbit on his feet 'til elvenses.

        With the stocky halfling trotting beside him, Aragorn carried the tray to Frodo's room.   Sam held the door open for him, and hurried ahead to hold the interior door.  Peering in, Aragorn almost changed his mind.  Frodo was asleep, propped up on pillows with one under his arm to raise his shoulder even with his body, lessening the strain on the wound.  In sleep, the beautiful morning glory eyes were closed and his face relaxed and peaceful.  Still, the dark brows were quirked and a small pain-line lay between the brows.

       Though the Ranger could move almost as silently as a hobbit, he deliberately rattled the tray when putting it down on the small table against the wall.   Frodo dragged his eyes open and regarded them fuzzily.  

       "Good morning, Aragorn," Frodo greeted him, ignoring the tray.  Sam was half-hiding behind the Ranger, hoping that Frodo wouldn't connect him with the Ranger's arrival and the return of the detested breakfast tray.  

       "Good morning, Frodo.  I trust you are feeling better this morning?"  Aragorn sat comfortably on the edge of the bed and Frodo smiled up at him, genuinely delighted at the early visit.  The Ranger laid the back of his hand against the hobbit's forehead, checking for signs of fever.  A lingering fever clung stubbornly in the small body, just enough to weary him and make his body ache.  Frodo accepted the touch with resignation, knowing his protests would be ignored. 

       "I am, thank you," the hobbit replied politely.  "I would like to get up today and take a walk in the gardens."

       Ah, an advantage.  Aragorn returned the smile.  "You must ask Elrond first.  Perhaps my lord will grant his permission.  I would be surprised, though…" Aragorn trailed off and waited to see if Frodo would fall for the feint.  

       The hobbit did.  "Why would he withhold consent?" asked Frodo, looking surprised. 

       "He has not been totally satisfied with your progress, Frodo."  Now the attack.  "You are not eating enough to regain your strength, and my lord fears you are not well enough to venture far."

       Frodo's brows drew down and he folded his arms gingerly, favoring the left.  Sam tried to shrink further into the woodwork.  

       "I am not hungry, Aragorn.  Perhaps a walk will stimulate my appetite." 

       Counter-attack … but the Ranger had had time to marshal his forces.   "It would be unwise for you to spend what little strength you have managed to gather in walking, Frodo.  I regret I must agree with Elrond, you are obviously not strong enough to be out of bed yet."

       Those beautiful morning glory eyes glared at him.  Sam started edging back towards the door.  Then Frodo sighed and capitulated.

       "All _right_."  The hobbit eyed the tray distastefully.  Aragorn sat the tray on his lap as Frodo carefully pulled himself more upright.  Sam hurried forward to tuck the linen napkin under his master's chin and was rewarded with a muttered, "Thank you, Sam." 

       But victory was premature.  Frodo transferred his glare to the innocent sausages, and sawed one up with rather more force than necessary.  Then he put down the hobbit-sized utensils that Lord Elrond had had especially carved for his guests and looked up at Aragorn.

       "I am not hungry, Aragorn.  Truly.  If I eat just the berries and the sausage, may I take a walk?"

       The Ranger resigned himself to opening negotiations.  "No, Frodo.  That is not enough.  If you eat that, and the scrambled eggs, you may walk with Sam once around the nearest garden."

       "I will be too full if I eat that much.  I would have to walk around the garden at least twice, Aragorn.  And will most probably have to sit in the sun for a while, too."  Frodo looked up at him hopefully.   The Ranger made a show of considering the counter-offer, frowning and holding the hobbit's eyes.  A smile began tugging at Frodo's mouth, though he tried to hide it.

       "A deal, struck!" agreed the Ranger.  "But you must adhere to that settlement, my good hobbit.  Any defaulting on the terms and the agreement is voided."

       Frodo nodded eagerly and set to fulfilling his part of the treaty.  He ate with obvious reluctance, but he did eat.  Sam breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his stomach unknot.  The Elf-lord had charged him with making sure his master ate, but hadn't offered any advice on how he was to achieve that goal.  Enlisting Aragorn had been his last resort, and Sam truly hoped that his Mr. Frodo didn't figure out that he had asked for the Ranger's help.

       Sam waited silently, worrying how he was going to get Mr. Frodo to eat tomorrow's breakfast, while his master and Aragorn chatted.  When Frodo's efforts began to lag, Aragorn began spinning him some tale of the Elder Days, full of heroic deeds and great battles and doomed loves.  Sam would have enjoyed the tale himself, had he been able to concentrate on it.  

       At last Frodo pushed away the breakfast, rubbing his stomach ruefully.  Sam retrieved the tray and prepared to carry it back to the kitchens.  He had almost escaped when his master's soft voice drifted after him.  "Sam," Frodo said gently, "when you get back, I'd like to have a word with you."

       "Yes, sir," Sam responded hopelessly.  Heaving a martyred sigh, he let himself out the door.  He missed the sympathetic look Aragorn directed at his back, and his master's slight smile as Frodo noticed it.

        "Don't pity him, Aragorn," Frodo said, as the door closed on Sam's back.  "He'll not catch it too badly.  I don't mind him drafting you to persuade me – it is a pleasure to see you for any reason.  But it is an inconvenience to you, so I want him to stew a little."

       The Ranger laughed and shook his head.  "A good leader knows his troops, my friend.  And your Sam is an army all on his own."

* * * * *

       With Aragorn looking after his master, Sam felt comfortable enough to snatch a quick breakfast for himself.  The elven cooks were more than gracious, and when he refused their invitation to sit and eat, loaded his arms with meatrolls, biscuits and fruit.  Staggering slightly under the bounty, Sam thanked them and started back to his master, munching on an apple as he walked.

       Perhaps the sound of his crunching drowned out the stealthy footsteps of either side of him.  Or he was just inattentive, relaxing for the first time that morning.  He was not aware of them until two sets of hands plundered his coat pockets, swiping apples, meatrolls and biscuits with only the slightest of tugs on the cloth.  

       "Hoy!  That's me breakfast!"

       "Your arms are full of food, Sam," Merry replied, "you can surely spare a little bit for two hungry hobbits?"  Beside him, his mouth full of Sam's meatroll, Pippin nodded vigorously. 

       "You lot have already been 'ta the kitchens!  The cooks said you ate every sweetcake in sight.  Now this was for me, an' a little for Mr. Frodo, if he'll take it –"

       "And how is our dear cousin this morning?"  Merry adroitly steered the indignant Sam away from the previous topic.  "We saw you petitioning Strider for help."

        "If you saw, Master Merry, why didn't you help me?  Mr. Frodo's been in a fine state, not wantin' to eat.  If you an' Mr. Pippin had joined him for breakfast, he'd eat more!"

       "Oh no, Sam,"  Pippin responded, examining an apple he had purloined, "you're not getting us involved in _that_ battle.  Frodo can be as stubborn as they come.  Don't know where he gets that – can't be from the Took side…"

       "It certainly isn't from the Brandybuck side," Merry commented.  "And since old Bilbo isn't here to defend the Bagginses, we shall blame it on him.  Now, my good Sam," here he paused to shake the crumbs out of his palm and off his fine yellow waistcoat, "what say we go pay our respects to our invalid cousin?"

       "Strider said he could take a turn 'round the garden today," Sam informed them.

       "Good."  Merry was suddenly serious.  "He needs to be up and moving, just not too much at a time."    

       'He won't be going far," predicted Sam gloomily.  "He's tired of stayin' in bed but he ain't as strong as he thinks he is.  I bet he doesn't make it twice 'round the garden."

       "Twice around the garden, hum?" Merry echoed.  "Perhaps Frodo needs some incentive…   Pip, do you think our cousin would be interested in what we found yesterday?"

       Pippin's whole face lit up in a beaming grin.  "Would he?  Would he!  We'll have to tie him down!"

       "Now hold on a moment," Sam interjected worriedly.  "You know he's not supposed 'ta get too excited, not 'til he's stronger.   What did you find yesterday?"

       Merry wasn't listening to him.  "No," he mused, "we don't want to wear him out till he can take it."  Merry's sharp blue eyes fastened on Sam.  "Tell you what, Sam.  Pip and I will take your bet.  If Frodo is able to walk around the garden twice, then we'll show him what we found.  If he can't … well, we'll wait a few days."

      "I didn't mean I wanted 'ta _make_ a bet, Mr. Merry," Sam said, alarmed.  "I meant –"    

      "There has to be more to it than that, Merry," Pippin cut in.  "We say Frodo can make it twice around the garden.  Sam says he can't.  If we're right and he's wrong, then Sam has to … has to ask the cooks for more meatrolls and sweetcakes for us.  Every morning for a week!  And if he's right and we're wrong … ummm…"  Pippin trailed off and looked up at his older cousin.

       "You have 'ta muck out Bill's stall every morning for a week, an' curry him!" finished Sam triumphantly.  

      "The Elves do that, Sam," Pippin protested.  "Anyway, that's way harder than asking for second breakfast.  Just tell the cooks the food is for the Ringbearer – they'll give you anything you want."

       "If you want a bet, them's the terms," answered Sam firmly. 

* TBC *  


	2. Sorrows, Comfort and More Deals

(Author's Note:   Shirebound, your review made my day.  You might be surprised to hear how carefully I read your stories, so that I may learn from you how to turn my usual one or two chapters into longer stories that still hold the readers' interest.  A Elbereth, thank you for the vote of confidence.  Rose Cotton, feel free to join in the betting; everyone else is.  Lily Baggins, the following Frodo h/c was written for you.  QTPie-2488, "sweet" and "light-hearted" is an effort for me, uncovered ground so to speak, but I will try to keep that tone.  Already, I feel the urge to start torturing our beloved hobbits…)

Chapter 2:  Sorrows, Comfort and More Deals

       As it turned out, both parties had to wait upon Frodo's convenience.  Returning with the surviving remains of his intended breakfast, Sam found that Frodo had fallen asleep again.  Strider held his finger up to his lips as Sam entered, and gestured towards the slumbering form.  Sam nodded and set his meal down as quietly as he could.  Rising soundlessly from the side of Frodo's bed, Aragorn clasped the stocky hobbit's shoulder and let himself out.

       Quietly chewing on a meatroll, Sam examined his master's pale face.  'He looks better,' Sam thought.  'You can't see the veins under his skin so easy.  And his eyes don't look so sunken.  Don't like the way he's holding that shoulder, though – all stiff an' hurting.  I'll lose that bet with Mr. Merry an' Mr. Pippin gladly, if he's just come out o' this and be like he was.'

       Frodo shifted in his sleep, and Sam eased himself into the bedside chair to continue his inspection.  'He don't look happy, though.  He looks tired an' strained … like he could sink into them covers and just thin out 'til there was nothing left…"   With an effort, Sam stifled a sudden, almost irresistible urge to wake up his master and make sure he was all right.

       Frodo started to turn on his left side, and froze as the movement pulled at his shoulder.  Still without waking, he rolled onto his back, his face suddenly tense.  Underneath the bruised lids, his large eyes appeared to dart about.  He was dreaming, Sam realized.  No … he was having a nightmare.  "No, no," Frodo murmured softly.  "Stay back … please, _don't_…"

       Sam felt his heart twist in sympathy.  He leaned over the still form and whispered, "It's all right, Mr. Frodo.  They can't get at you here.  You're safe, Frodo.  You're safe, me dear…"  Frodo turned his face slightly towards Sam's voice, and his features smoothed out again into untroubled sleep.

       "Is he dreaming about Weathertop?"  Merry quiet voice barely registered, so soft were the words.  Looking up, Sam saw Merry and Pippin standing at the interior door.  Tears were swimming in Pippin's green-gold eyes.  As he watched, one broke free of the others and ran down the youngster's cheek.  Pippin stared over at his sleeping cousin and covered his face with his hands.

       Merry hugged the young hobbit, drawing him back out into the adjoining room and motioning for Sam to follow.  "He'll be all right, Pip.  He'll be fine.  You just watch, he'll be himself in no time…"  Still holding his cousin close, Merry continued to comfort and reassure the young hobbit until Pippin could face them without trembling.  

       Giving the youngster time to recover, Sam turned back to make sure the door was shut, so that their conversation would not disturb his master.  Before closing it tightly, he took one more peek to ensure that Frodo was sleeping peacefully.  Frodo's chest rose and fell rhythmically, but his hand had moved up to his throat, to clutch at something that lay on his breast.  Sam felt tears sting his own eyes as he pulled the door closed.

       "Curse that vile thing," he muttered against the door.  "I wish old Mr. Bilbo hadn't ever found it, nor brought it back, nor gave it 'ta my Mr. Frodo.  I wish none of this had happened.  I wish…"

       "What's that, Sam?"  Sam turned around to see Merry staring at him curiously.  

       "Nothing," he replied rather gruffly.  Rubbing his sleeve over his eyes, he joined the other two where they had plopped themselves down on a divan.  Pippin swung his short legs for a moment then slid down to a cushion on the floor and leaned against Merry's knees, finding that more comfortable. 

       "Is he going to wake up soon, Sam?" Merry asked.  "Lord Elrond's on his way over.  We saw him out by the gazebo.  He's bringing another tonic for Frodo to drink."

       "It's _green_," Pippin informed Sam.  "Frodo's not going to like it."

       "Then perhaps you can help convince him to take it, Master Peregrin."   The three hobbits rose to their feet and bowed as the Master of Rivendell swept into the room.  "This tonic will help Master Baggins recover his strength.  Enough strength, perhaps, for a turn about the garden?"

       The three hobbits flushed.  "Err … how did you hear about that, my lord?" Merry asked.

       "Be assured that I know of everything that occurs in Imladris, Master Meriadoc."  The Elf-lord smiled down at them and the three relaxed.  "Have the books closed on your little wager?"

       Pippin grinned up at the tall lord.  "We're still taking bets, sir.  Care to get in on the action?"

       "Mr. Pippin!" hissed Sam in a strangled tone.

       But the Elf took no offense.  His deep, dark eyes regarded them.  "I might, at that.  I surely should place my belief in the efficiency of my tonics, after all.  But Master Frodo is still sorely hurt, and has not had sufficient time to regain his strength…"  Laughter lurked in those ageless eyes.  "What of this, little masters?  If young Frodo cannot complete a circuit of my nearest garden, I will require of you each to scrub the moss from the base of all the fountains.  It is difficult for my folk to reach so low."

       "And if he makes it, my lord?"  Emboldened by Elrond's lack of rebuke, Merry was willing to bargain.  

       "That is more difficult, Master Meriadoc.  What would you have of me?"

       Merry closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.  "I want a copy of all the maps from Rivendell to Mount Doom.  On tanned hide, so I can carry them in my pack."

       Pippin's eyes were enormous.   The Elf-lord caught his gaze, and Sam's.  "And you two?  Are my terms and Master Meriadoc's acceptable to you?"

       Pippin nodded.  Sam was more hesitant – not about the terms, but about making them.  "I don't know as Mr. Frodo would like us taking odds on 'im getting stronger," the stocky hobbit said slowly.  "He's not one 'ta –"

       "To what, Sam?"  Frodo leaned against the doorjam, his rising unheard by any of them.  Pippin at once leaped to his feet and led his cousin to the divan.  Frodo's walk was uncertain, and he held Pippin's arm to steady himself.  He had pulled a robe over his nightshirt, but still shivered.  Over his dark head, Merry and Sam exchanged a worried glance.

       "Ahhh," Sam temporized.  "We were … umm, we were…"  A bead of sweat gathered in his sandy hair and ran down the side of his face.

       Though he leaned against Merry, Frodo's gaze sharpened on Samwise.  "Sam?"       

      "We were discussing the possibility of gainful employment for your cousins and Sam," the Elf-lord interjected smoothly.   "How are you feeling, Master Frodo?"

      "Much better, Lord Elrond, thank you."  Frodo looked rather confused but did not ask for further clarification.  "Aragorn made me eat a large breakfast, though, and I am rather uncomfortable at the moment."

       "Perhaps this will help."  The Elf-lord raised up the tonic and Frodo groaned.  "Come, little master.  Let us retire to your sleeping chamber so that I may examine and rebandage the wound."  Guiding the reluctant hobbit before him, Lord Elrond steered Frodo into the bedroom and closed the door.

       "A close call there, Sam," grinned Merry, deviltry dancing in his blue eyes.  

       "I jus' don't think this is right, Mr. Merry," Sam grumbled.  

       "Merry?"

       "What?"

       "I'm hungry.  Since Lord Elrond's with Frodo, can't we go have lunch?  Come on, Sam.  Let's go see if Bilbo is ready to eat."  

* * * * * 

       Bilbo was waiting for them in his rooms.  The old hobbit spent most of his time there now, when he was not sitting with Frodo or listening to songs and tales in the Hall of Fire.   He listened to their report of his nephew's progress, which differed somewhat according to who was saying what.   

       Hobbits being the talkers that they are among their own kind, it wasn't long before Bilbo had the whole story of The Wager (as they had began to call it) out of the younger folk.  To Sam's horror, Bilbo insisted on placing his own bet.

       "And why not?  I know my Frodo-lad.  The more Lord Elrond tries to make him rest, the harder he'll try to get up.  A Bagginses' trait, I'm afraid."

       "Hah!" said Merry under his breath to Pippin.  "Told you so."

       Bilbo had been staring at the ornately carved ceiling, his dark eyes thoughtful.  Though his body had aged, those earth-brown orbs were as quick and lively as ever.  "I'm betting that my lad can complete that walk in the garden."

       "And what do you offer?"  Merry was grinning, and Sam moaned.  

      "Hummm…" Bilbo considered.  "I have been trying for some time to get Arwen to sing for me the songs of Lothlórien, so that I may write them down for my book.   I know she has many demands on her time, but I would so like to record those songs…   Well, my boys – how's this?  If Frodo makes it, Arwen sings for me.  If he doesn't, then I will relieve Elrond's cartographer of drawing the maps for you, Merry.  He doesn't have time to do that, and I've drawn a few, you know."

      Pippin tugged on his older cousin's waistcoat.  "We can't promise him that, Merry!" he hissed into a pointed ear.  "The Lady Arwen doesn't answer to us!"

       "Hush, Cousin.  Don't worry, we won't lose.  You know Frodo wouldn't give in if it killed him.  And with the added incentive of our surprise for him, we can't lose."

* * * * * 

       Returning to see if Elrond had finished with Frodo, Sam and Merry and Pippin stopped at the stables to visit Bill and feed him the carrots they had collected for him from lunch.  Glorfindel was attending to Asfaloth, brushing down his steed and trimming his silk-like mane.  Sam clicked his tongue, and the stallion graciously lowered his great head to accept a nose-rub from the hobbit. 

       "Right beautiful he is, sir," Sam said to the elf, softly.  Sam's eyes were practically glowing with delight as he stroked the lovely animal.  Asfaloth gently butted the stocky halfling and lipped his hands.  With a final stroke of the shining coat, Sam turned back to Bill, who occupied the stall next to Asfaloth.  The pony was watching jealously, even as Pip and Merry petted him.         

      "Horses always know when they're being admired, do they not, Samwise?"   The elf's clear eyes crinkled in humor.  The elf paused in his brushing and regarded the hobbits.  Asfaloth leaned into the brush and turned his head to look beseechingly at his rider.  "And so I am instructed to resume my efforts."  The elf laughed, a clear peal like the ringing of bells.  "Speaking of great efforts, I have heard that there are odds being laid on the Ringbearer's degree of recovery.  May I participate?"

       Merry's whole face lit up.  Pippin looked worried.  "This is getting out o' hand," Sam muttered darkly.  "An' no good'll come of it."

* TBC *  


	3. This is getting out o' hand Samwise

(Author's Note:  I can't thank you wonderful readers and reviewers enough for your comments and suggestions.  Shirebound, I agree – I wish we had a detailed account of all of our hobbits' time in Rivendell.  If the books were fifty times as thick, I'd still treasure every word.  Tathar, I'm honored you take the time to read and review my stories – my heartfelt thanks.  QTPie-2488, as much as I'd like to keep this a fluff piece, I'm afraid it's going to start getting darker.  Love that "hobbit-angst," don't we?  A Elbereth, yes, you are right.  And Rose Cotton, since you enjoyed the previous chapter, this one was written with you in mind.  Everyone – thank you.)

Chapter 3:  "This is getting out o' hand…" - Samwise

       The elf looked thoughtful, continuing to curry the great stallion.  Asfaloth sighed happily, his white sides heaving.  "Elladan and Elrohir are riding north to scout the great treeharbors soon.  I would like to accompany them to that beautiful place.  I asked my lord Elrond, but he had already requested Estel go.  Should I win, I would like to take Estel's place."

       "And if you lose?"  Merry's face was apprehensive but delighted.  Pippin tugged on Merry's waistcoat.  Disgruntled, Sam thought that Mr. Merry had best put in an order for a new one if the youngster kept that up.  "What _is_ it, Pip?"  A little shy around the lordly elf, Pippin rose up on his furry toes and whispered in his cousin's ears.

        "Ahhh," Merry murmured to him, "good thinking, Pippin-lad."  Merry faced the amused elf again.  "If you lose," he continued, "will you … will you muck out Bill's stable and curry him when you do Asfaloth?  For a week?"

       The two hobbits had surprised the elf.  "Are you not pleased with the stable-workers?  You have only to speak to –"

       "Oh, no, no" the small ones chorused.  When Glorfindel stared at them, Merry started, "It's only … well…  You care for Asfaloth instead of leaving him to the hostlers, don't you?

       The elf nodded and stroked a slender hand along the stallion's backbone.  "Yes, his lordship here prefers that I attend him."

       Merry nodded rapidly.  "Well, we're all so busy, sitting with Frodo and preparing to depart and getting our supplies, well, we don't have much time.  Poor Bill doesn't feel like he's getting enough attention."  (Sam swallowed a protest and glared at the hay on the floor.)

       Glorfindel reached a long arm over and scratched the pony gently between his curiously watching eyes.  "It would be an honor," the elf said.  "I agree."

* * * * * 

       "Now enough is enough!"  Sam's round face was choleric. "Mr. Frodo's not going 'ta like this at all!  I don't even want 'ta think 'bout when he finds out-"

      Merry rode over him cheerfully.  "And who's going to tell him, Sam?  Are you?"  The stocky hobbit dug a toe into the soft earth and growled under his breath.    "Ah, I thought not…   Look, Sam, we'll just talk to Arwen and Aragorn –"

       "No!  No, _we_ won't.  I'll not be involved in this!  I'll honor me word 'cause I gave it already, but you two villains can just leave me out of any further dealings!"  With that, the angry hobbit turned on his heel and strode away, smoke almost visibly rising out of his pointed ears.

       Pippin watched him go, misery pictured on his small, sharp face.  "Merry," he ventured hesitantly, "don't you think that Sam might be right?  This does seem to be getting awfully complicated…"

      "Don't worry, Pip.  It will all work out!  How could we possibly lose?"  Merry gave his cousin a brief hug and started off towards the living quarters.

       Trailing after his older cousin (and out of his hearing), Pippin said softly, "Oh, I can think of _lots_ of ways…"

       "Lots of ways to what, Pippin?"  The young hobbit jerked himself away from his worries at the gentle inquiry.  Aragorn stood next to him, his arms laden with strips of leather and a whetstone.  Pippin flushed; the Ranger had snuck up on him with the quietness of a hobbit.  Pip hadn't even known he was there, and that was embarrassing.

       "Hullo, Strider.  Um … Aragorn."  The Man smiled at him but a dark eyebrow rose and Pippin felt he had better explain himself.  "Ummm … ummm," he said. 

       "I know that look, Pippin, and it means trouble for someone.  Usually for you.  What are you and that rascally cousin of yours up to?"  The young hobbit squirmed under the Ranger's full attention.  

       "Why, Aragorn!  What an insulting thing to say.  How could you think that?"  Merry draped an arm over Pippin's shoulders and beamed up at the Ranger.  With the sun glinting in his blond curls, his glowing face looked positively cherubic.

       "Oh-oh."  Aragorn eyed them both mistrustfully.

       "As a matter of fact," Merry continued, ignoring his fidgeting cousin, "Pip and I were just coming to look for you."  Pippin groaned and Aragorn looked at him.  "Pip and I have a little wager running, on if Cousin Frodo can complete a full circuit of the nearest garden.  He's a lot better, you know.  I say he's strong enough to do it, and Pippin says he isn't."  

      Pippin unobtrusively kicked his cousin's instep and Merry grunted.  The Ranger's gaze sharpened on them both.  Merry smiled at him sweetly.  "Since you saved Frodo's life, we feel that we should give you the opportunity to join the two of us."  The young hobbit leaned down to rub the back of his ankle.

      "That seems innocent enough."  Aragorn tried staring them down but the twin sets of eyes, blue and gold-green, looked absolutely guileless.   The man sighed.  "I would dearly love to take Arwen on a picnic.  Just the two of us.  But my duties do not permit…"

       "What if we can get someone else to go in your place?" Merry interrupted.  "If you win and we lose, we'll find someone to go in your stead."

       "Go where, Merry?"

       The young hobbit realized that he had been over-eager.  "Ah … to the treeharbors in the north.  Word gets around, you know."

        "Does it."  

       "And if we win," Merry rushed on, hoping that Aragorn would forget about his gaffe, "we want you to talk to Lord Elrond and ask him if he'll speak to his cooks and let Pippin and I have a full hobbit-sized second breakfast, as much as we can eat.  For a week."

       The Ranger stared at them like he would like to peel back their skins and see into their hearts.  "That seems innocent enough," he repeated doubtfully.  "All right.  Having seen how stubborn your cousin is first-hand, I wager that he does complete the walk."  Another deep-set stare, which the young hobbits ignored.  "So if I win, then you'll arrange with Elrond for me to have a day to spend with Arwen instead of riding out?"  They nodded, Pippin more slowly than Merry.  "How exactly do you propose to do that?"

     Merry grinned up at him disarmingly.  "Don't worry about that, Aragorn.  We'll take care of it.  After all, we can't lose – have you ever met anyone as stubborn as Frodo?"

      Watching the two halflings walk off, arm in arm, Aragorn thought to himself, 'Yes, two.'  Pippin looked back over his shoulder at the Ranger, clearly unhappy about something.  'Or one, certainly.  What is going on here?'

* * * * *

       Pippin, meanwhile, was making his unhappiness known to his cousin.  "What do you mean asking Strider to ask Lord Elrond for second breakfasts for us?  Sam has to do that, if he loses."

       "Sam's not too happy with us right now, Pip," Merry returned.  "Maybe if we let him off the hook, it will square things between us."  Pippin relaxed slightly, until Merry continued.  "And no matter who wins or loses, someone asks Lord Elrond for us.  He certainly won't turn down Aragorn.  We most probably get second breakfast either way."

       Pippin gaped at him.  Merry ignored the look.  "Come on, Pip.  We've got work to do.  Let's find the Lady Arwen."

       The two found the elf-woman in the staples room, supervising the re-stocking of the medicinal inventory.  With so many delegations guesting at the elven sanctuary, part of her duties included ensuring that there was enough of everything on hand in case of need.  At the quiet shuffling of unshod feet, she turned to face them.  Merry and Pippin were struck dumb with wonder, their proposals lost in the ethereal beauty that smiled gently at them.

         Arwen Evenstar's dark eyes warmed as she looked upon the two small persons.  Until now, the only hobbit she had known was Bilbo and she had learned to love the old halfling dearly.  These four little ones were a delight, each as individual in their personalities as the stars, yet alike in the greatness and joy of their spirits.  And the Ringbearer … such courage humbled and awed her.

       "Good afternoon, little masters," she greeted them.  Rising gracefully from her place before the supplies chest, the elf towered over them.  "How may I be of service to you?"

       The two little ones stared at her.  Arwen smiled inwardly and politely waited for them to recover themselves.  At last Merry sighed and stirred.  Visibly forcing himself to stop staring and respond, the halfling said, "Lady Arwen, um … Pip and I have a little bet going on our Cousin Frodo's recovery.  We thought you might like to join in."

       "Yes?" she prompted him gently.  Beside him, Pippin hadn't yet closed his mouth as he stared at her.

        Following the direction of her gaze, Merry elbowed his younger cousin sharply in the stomach.  Pippin closed his mouth with an almost inaudible "urpp!" then blushed furiously.

       "A little bet," she mused.  "What terms do you offer?"

       Again Merry explained the bet.  "Pip and I were thinking that … knowing how busy you are, maybe we could negotiate you a day off.  Then you and Aragorn could … um, spend some time together, maybe go on a picnic or something."

      "That would indeed be a prize worth having," the elf-woman said, her breathtaking eyes unfocused for a moment as a smile curved her lips.  "A picnic with my beloved…  What must I forfeit if I lose?"

      Again Merry spoke for them both.  "Only a little of your time, Lady.  Our Cousin Bilbo has long desired you to sing him some of the songs of your kin of the Golden Wood, so he can record them in his book.  Would you do that, if you lose?"

       Arwen smiled.  "I have long wished to accommodate dear Bilbo, but have had no time to give him.  Even were I to lose, I would count myself the winner if I could fulfill his wishes in this matter.  Very well, you have my agreement."  Now she stopped and thought.  "I know how sorely Frodo was wounded, and I know that he has not been the best patient here."  When they moved to protest, she fixed them with smiling eyes as clear as coming twilight.  "The battles to make him eat are becoming legendary in Imladris," she continued.  "He will not recover his strength if he will not eat.

      "I therefore wager against him, that he will not have the strength to complete his walk in my father's gardens."  Arwen gravely held out her slim hand to the two halflings, and they shook it in turn.         

        "Snap out of it, Pip!"  Merry shook his cousin hard and only then did Pippin realize he still had that silly smile on his face, the one that blossomed there whenever he was around the elven princess.  Coming back to Middle-earth, he realized that he and Merry were halfway back to Frodo's room.  Sometime during his fog, Merry had acquired a pocketful of apples.  Vaguely, Pippin remembered hearing something about making Frodo eat them to get his strength back.  
       "Oh no," he heard Merry murmur and tried to refocus on his surroundings.  Gandalf was coming towards them, his sharp eyes under the bushy brows fixed on them.  It was too late to use their natural hobbit-stealth to hide.  The wizard pulled up to them and planted his staff directly in their path, leaning on it as he glared at them.

       "What's this I'm hearing about you taking bets on your cousin's strength?  Does Frodo know about this?"

       "Good afternoon to you, too, Gandalf," Merry returned, not in the least intimidated.  "Would you like a piece of the action?"

        "It would serve you right if I did.  In fact, I think I shall.  I wager that Frodo will make it all the way around Elrond's garden.  If he can't, then I will supply you a solvent that will dissolve the moss on the base of the fountains for you.  No scrubbing; just wipe it on and wipe it off.  But if I win," and the wizard leaned in closer and they involuntarily took a step back, "you stop all this book-making and place no more bets – ever!"

* TBC *  


	4. Apples and Promises

(Author's Note:  I am so pleased that many of you have taken the time to tell me how much you are enjoying this lighter fare.  Baylor, I agree that this is certainly the type of mischief that Merry would instigate.  There is one photo of movie-Merry circulating on some of LotRs sites, offering Frodo "sausages and nice crispy bacon" just before the attack of Weathertop.  That's the expression I envision when Merry is making book; eager, focused and thoroughly enjoying himself.  Tathar, I debated involving Lord Elrond and Arwen, and decided that Elves thousands of years old would enjoy a little action of this type.  Immortality must get dull.  Tiggivon, I think Merry and Pippin are going to wish they'd written it down, too … very, very much.  My thanks to everyone who had read and especially to those who have reviewed this story – your comments are carefully read and greatly appreciated.)

Chapter 4:  Apples and Promises

       The wizard took a step forward and Merry and Pippin bounced on their heels, trying to avoid another retreat backwards.  "Really, Gandalf," Merry began, drawing on his reserves to display an innocent smile, "would we –"

       "Yes, you would, Meriadoc Brandybuck."  The staff was driven into the soft earth a few inches from his toes as he tried to edge around the wizard, dragging Pippin after him.  "You two haven't been here a fortnight and you've already started turning Rivendell upside down."  Pippin crowded closer to Merry, trying to hide behind his cousin.  "Not satisfied with disrupting Elrond's Council, I hear you are evidently trying to eat everything in his kitchens.  Now Samwise is upset and Frodo, when he finds out about this -"

       Merry thought it best that Gandalf not start listing their apparent misdemeanors.   Squeezing Pip's shoulder warningly, Merry gasped, his blue eyes widening, "Stars!  What is _that_?"

      The wizard whirled, his staff automatically coming up into a defensive position.  The path behind him was empty.  He completed the turn in less than a heartbeat, but he was too late.  He stood alone upon the walk.

* * * * *

      "Don't worry, Pip.  I haven't met one of the Big People yet who could trail a hobbit, even a wizard.  Except for Aragorn … and maybe Legolas."  Merry dug one of the apples out of his pocket and bit into it, indicating to his cousin that he was not as cool as he appeared.  "Still, it might be wise to steer clear of old Gandalf for a while."

       Pippin was all for that.  And for steering clear of everyone else they had talked to that day.  And he _definitely_ wanted to stay away from Frodo … which was exactly where his cousin was dragging him.

       "Come on, Pip!  These apples are delicious.  Crisp and juicy.  Want one?"  When Pippin shook his head without speaking, Merry looked over at him.  "Pip," he said more gently, "think of it as just livening the place up a little.  Surely the Elves find all this peace and serenity boring.  They should thank us."

       "I don't think Frodo's going to thank us," Pippin replied worriedly, his stomach tightening.  "Even dangling our surprise in front of him isn't going to make up for _this_.  Merry, you know it takes a lot to get him angry, but when he does –"

       "Um."  Merry examined his apple as if he found the fruit suddenly fascinating.

       Further discussion was postponed as they arrived at Frodo's door.  Sam opened it at their knock, looking none too pleased when he saw who it was.  "He's resting," the stocky hobbit said, before Merry had even opened his mouth.  "And he don't need no one getting 'im all riled up."  

       "Calm down, Sam," Merry soothed.  "We aren't going to upset him.  Pip and I just brought him some apples.  See?"  Several of the apples were displayed as evidence.    

       Sam stood in the door, blocking them uncertainly.  Matters were decided for him when they heard a soft voice drift from the sleeping chamber.  "Sam?  Is that Merry?"

Sam grimaced; he had left the room's door open in case his master needed anything while he worked in the adjoining room.  Frodo's body might be damaged and exhausted, but his hearing was fine.

       "Yes, sir, it is," Sam called back over his shoulder.  "An' Mr. Pippin, too."  Giving way, he glared at them as they sidled in.  

      With Sam following them mistrustfully, the two entered their cousin's bedchamber.  Frodo was again propped up on a multitude of pillows, some huge elvish book in his hands.  With a visible effort to lift it, he set it aside gladly to welcome his visitors.  Both of them leaned over to kiss his brow before settling on the bed, careful not to jostle it.

       "Hullo, Cousin.  If we're interrupting your reading, Pip and I can come back later."

       "No, no.  I'm glad of the break.  Lord Elrond thought this history might interest me, but it is written entirely in elvish and I find it difficult.  I wish I could find something more to my taste."  He stopped and looked at Pippin, who was grinning, his green-gold eyes dancing.  "And what are _you_ so happy about, Cousin?"

       "Who, me?  Nothing.  Nothing at all."

       When Frodo looked like he meant to pursue it, Merry distracted him by pouring apples into his lap.  Merry smiled.  "They're small but very sweet.  Try one, Frodo.  It's like biting into autumn."

      Frodo did, pleasure on his wan face.  "They _are_ good.  Thank you, Merry.  Come on, Sam, have one."  Pippin took one and then Merry had to also.  Merry had meant for Frodo to eat them all, or as many as he would, but he was satisfied with getting at least a few down his cousin.

     Seeing that the two weren't upsetting his master, Sam finally relaxed and the atmosphere grew noticeably more amicable.   That is, until Merry said, "Frodo, Pip and I have a surprise for you –"

       He got no farther.  Sam bounced off the bed, drawing a gasp from Frodo, his features going white.  Whatever Sam had been going to say was lost in concern for his master.  "I'm sorry, sir!  I didn't mean 'ta hurt you!  Are you all right?"  Sam captured Frodo's right hand in both of his brown ones, his round face radiating anxiousness.

       "I - I'm all right, Sam."  Perspiration gleamed on Frodo's forehead.  "I just wasn't ready for you to move quite so quickly.  It's better now, truly."

       Merry tugged on Pippin's arm, drawing the youngster's gaze away from the pain etched on their cousin's face.  "I think we'd better let you rest, Cousin."  When Frodo would have protested, he continued, "We'll be back after supper, and tell you one of the stories we hear in the Hall of Fire."

       Resigned, Frodo nodded.  "But what of this surprise you mentioned?  What surprise?"  Looking at them, he didn't see Sam's face go apoplectic.  Merry and Pippin did.  Rising, they hurriedly excused themselves and let themselves out, just ahead of Samwise's wrath.

* * * * *

       To the two's relief, Gandalf was not present at dinner.  Everyone else was, though.   The hobbits sat at table on a pile of cushions, shifting carefully so that they did not fall off.  It was difficult to balance and give the food the absolute hobbit-concentration it deserved.  Perhaps that was why they were not aware of the small delegation until the Big Folk were standing behind them.

       Throughout dinner, Merry and Pippin had been aware that they were the object of discussion among several parties.  Pippin kept his head down, his cheeks burning, and applied himself to his food.  Merry cheerfully met every amused glance (while also applying himself to his food), winking and grinning widely whenever his eyes met any of the wagerers'.   Sitting at the head of the high table, Elrond mused to himself on these halflings' personalities, so unalike and yet alike.  The Master of Rivendell inclined his head elegantly to hear his daughter's comment, and his eyes lingered on the little ones.  When all had finished except the hobbits, who were still "filling up the corners" as they put it, Elrond rose and with a wave of his hand, gathered to him all who had placed bets on the Ringbearer's strength.

       Pippin choked as he became aware of the elves, one elderly hobbit and a single man waiting politely behind him.  Merry whacked him on the back, then startled himself as the half-turn brought the patiently waiting delegation into his view.  Both hobbits slid off the cushions, scattering them widely.  Stifling a laugh, Elrond bent gracefully and handed several of the closer ones to Pippin, who clutched them to his small chest, his wide eyes apprehensive.

       "I hope we did not startle you, little masters," said the Elf-lord gently.  Behind him, Arwen smiled and any reply Pippin might have had went clear out of his curly head.  Beside him, Merry returned the smile and bowed.  Pippin hoped that he would someday be as self-possessed in the presence of these lordly folk.  Trying to kick one of the escaped cushions unobtrusively under the tablecloth, he ruefully suspected it wouldn't be soon. 

       "We merely seek to confirm with you the terms of our dealings.  Would tomorrow be acceptable to you for the trial?"  Both hobbits nodded.  "Ah, good.  I will accompany you back to your cousin as I have another tonic for him, and assure myself that he is strong enough to venture out tomorrow.  I will not risk a relapse."  The hobbits nodded again.  "Is the hour after mid-day acceptable to you?  The sun is at its warmest then and I do not want Master Baggins to be chilled."

       "One hour after mid-day, my lord," affirmed Merry. A collective murmur circulated among the elves and they started to drift away to their own conversations and concerns.  

       "Lads?"  Bilbo joined them, a worried expression on his lined face.  He rarely ate at table anymore, but had come at the end to be present when Lord Elrond spoke.  By the door, Aragorn waited to escort his friend to the Hall of Fire for the evening's singing and tale-spinning.  He did not intrude upon the halflings, but leaned at his ease against the doorjam and waited patiently.

        "Lads," Bilbo continued, "you _have_ told Frodo about this, haven't you?        

        "Don't worry, Bilbo."  Merry assisted his younger cousin in replacing the cushions while speaking to the old hobbit.  "I assure you that –"  He broke off as the Elf-lord joined them, another phial of green liquid in his hand.  Bilbo watched as the three took their leave and moved off, wondering what young Pippin's eye-rolling grimace had been supposed to convey to him.

* * * * *

          Sam opened the door with a startled "whuff!" when he saw the Elf-lord.  His grey eyes were tight and Pippin and Merry knew immediately that something was wrong.  "My lord, I'm glad you're here.  I was jus' about to ask someone 'ta go for you."  Samwise stepped back from the door and motioned them in with rather more alacrity than grace.

       "What is it, Master Gamgee?  Is your master unwell?"

       "Yes, sir, he is."  Sam was practically vibrating in place, stopping himself from pulling the Elf-lord into Frodo's room.  "His fever started 'ta go up this afternoon, after he had some excitement," (Sam carefully did not look at the other two guests, yet somehow managed to convey clearly he thought Merry and Pippin were the cause), "and now he's in a bad state.  He's sweating an' tossing an'I don't think he's in 'is right mind.  And 'is arm and shoulder's gone all cold again."

         Elrond swept past them while Sam was still speaking.  He paused for only a moment in the doorway, taking in the sight of a fevered and flushed Frodo struggling with the bed covers.  A basin of cool water and a cloth lay abandoned where Sam had dropped them to attend the door.  Frodo was pulling at the blankets, alternately pushing them away and pulling them back as he shifted between chills and fever-heat.  Sweat beaded his face and ran down into his soaked nightshirt, and his eyes were unfocused and frighteningly unaware of his surroundings.

* TBC *


	5. Tonics and Troubles

(Author's Note:   As many times as I have said "thank you" to everyone who has read and especially reviewed this story, it bears repeating.  I mean it.  As Frodo would say, "truly."  Mysia, your review was delightful.  Rose Cotton, I agree – I think Merry instigates most of their scraps and drags Pippin after.  A Elbereth, does anything we enjoy ever last long enough?  QTPie-2488 and shirebound, this story is my first real attempt at in-depth Frodo h/c – I am re-reading Lily Baggins' and shirebound's work to learn how to do it right.  Still figuring it out, though… any pointers anyone would care to give would be gratefully appreciated.  Tathar, oh no, Merry and Pippin aren't getting off _that_ easy.  Everyone, thank you.)

Chapter 5:  Tonics and Troubles

       The Elf-lord was beside the bed in an instant, kneeling to lay a long hand on the feverish hobbit's brow.  "Master Baggins?" he said softly, then "Master Baggins!" more loudly when he received no response.  _"Frodo!"_

       The last turned Frodo's sweat-soaked face towards him, and the unfocused eyes stared at him.  But there was no recognition in the huge morning glory eyes and Frodo closed them and turned away again, his hands plucking at the bedsheets as he tried vainly to escape the miserable illness wracking his body.

      "Samwise, exactly how long as he been like this?"  Elrond's slender hands were probing up under Frodo's jaw and at the sides of his throat, turning the dark head sideways to peer into his ears.  Frodo fought him feebly, his own hands coming up to catch at the Elf's, pulling at them weakly as he tried to burrow away from the gentle handling.  Elrond took no notice but continued his examination, scooping up the abandoned cloth to swipe away the runnels of matter crusting the hobbit's eyes.

       "He started feelin' bad just before teatime, sir.  Mr. Bilbo brought him some lovely little cakes, but he wouldn't eat 'em.  He seemed awful tired, so Mr. Bilbo left.  I thought he was sleeping, till I came in an hour ago an' found him like this."  Sam hovered at the Elf's shoulder, watching the inspection anxiously.  Standing a little back from them, Merry and Pippin watched no less anxiously.

       "He said I wasn't 'ta bother you, sir.  That he jus' had a headache and his eyes hurt.  I thought it was from all that readin'.   You know how he is, sir – he hates 'ta have people fuss over him."

       Merry became aware that Pippin was tugging on his waistcoat.  His eyes never leaving his cousin's face, Merry said, "What is it, Pip?"

       "Is this our fault, Merry?  Is he sick again because we got him too tired this afternoon?"  Having finally gotten his older cousin's attention, Pippin wiggled his arm around Merry's waist, and Merry pulled him close for comfort.  Pippin was trembling, he discovered, as the small form pressed against him.

       Before Merry could reply, Elrond turned his elegant head towards them.  "Do not fear, Pippin," came his calm voice.  "Your cousin is stronger than that.  It is much more likely that the tonic I had him imbibe earlier has caused this.  It is a potent medicine designed to attack a fever, to finally banish the fever that has lingered in Frodo's body since the removal of the shard from the Morgul-blade.  It is possible that I have given him too much, or in too strong a concentration.  Treating hobbits is, I fear," the Elf-lord continued softly, "still an imprecise science among us."

        Beneath Elrond's gentle touch, Frodo groaned then muttered something, trying to turn on his side to escape the intrusive hands.   His dark curls hung in dank ringlets and when he thrashed on the pillow, his head left a damp mark on the fine linen.

       "His body's temperature is too high for safety," murmured the Elf-lord.  "Sam, please draw him a bath, using water only slightly warm.  I will go at once and bring another tonic, one that will counteract the other.  The combination will most likely make him sick, unfortunately.  Merry, Pippin, while Sam prepares the bath, please remove your cousin's nightshirt and wash Frodo down with this cool water.  Give him as much water as he will drink.  I will return shortly."  Elrond rose gracefully and made to leave, then suddenly turned and addressed the feverish hobbit.  "I am sorry, Frodo.  I am truly sorry."  Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

       His departure was so swift that it caught the hobbits unprepared.  They gaped at each other for a moment, then Sam swung into action.  "Right," he barked.  "You lot start on Mr. Frodo.  Make sure he don't get chilled.  I'll go for the tub, an' start on the buckets."  With a last look at his suffering master, Sam hurried off to complete his assignment.

       "Come on, Pip.  We need to get some water into him quickly.  Pour me a cup for him, will you?"  Merry eased himself up on the side of the bed and winced as Frodo groaned again, shivering violently.  "Hullo, Cousin," Merry told him softly.  "Don't you worry, you're going to be fine.  Lord Elrond will have you fixed up in no time."  At the familiar and loved voice, Frodo turned his head towards Merry and those beautiful eyes struggled to focus on him.  Merry stroked his cheek, frightened at the heat under his hand.  "Pippin, where's that water?"  Looking up, he saw that Pippin hadn't moved.

       "Pippin-lad?"

       "What if he dies?"  Pippin's sharp face was red with suppressed tears.  He had wrapped his arms across his chest and was hugging himself fiercely.   "We've been placing _bets_, Merry!  _Betting_ on whether he's strong enough to take a walk!  And now he's sick again, and he might _die_ –" Pippin's voice was spiraling up into hysteria as Merry watched, frozen.

       Cautious of jostling Frodo, Merry left his bedside and caught the youngster in his arms, holding him tightly.  "Pip," he murmured into the bronze curls, "I promise you that Frodo will be all right.  I _promise_.  But right now he needs you to help me help him."  Pippin was stiff in his embrace, his small body rigid.  "Pippin-lad, will you help me?"

       With a sob, the young hobbit relaxed, tension flowing out of his muscles.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.  "I'm sorry.  I just feel so guilty.  Where's the water –"

       "Pip?"

       Frodo's voice was so faint and cracked they didn't recognize it for a second but stared blankly at the other, each knowing the other hadn't spoken.  Turning as one, they rushed to his side.  Pippin reached him first, his small hands catching Frodo's right as it strained weakly up to him.

       "Pip, are you all right?"  Frodo's lips were painfully dry and it was obviously hurt to speak.  Merry picked up the discarded cloth and dipped it into the basin, ran it over the cracked lips.  Frodo thanked him with a look then stared again at Pippin, blinking rapidly to keep him in focus.

       "Am _I_ all right?  Am _I_ all right?" Pippin choked out a laugh then suddenly buried his head against Frodo's chest, making the older hobbit gasp.

       "Easy there, lad.  Ouch!"  At the last exclamation, Merry reached over and gently pulled Pippin back.  Pippin clung tightly for a moment then released his cousin.  He kissed Frodo on the forehead then darted over to the small table set against the wall, where the pitcher and cups waited.

      He was back in a heartbeat, water sloshing from the beautifully-carved wooden cup.  Merry slid behind Frodo and leaned back against the wall, lifting his shoulders carefully and supporting him against his chest so Pippin could put the cup to his lips.  Frodo drank thirstily but was unable to take more than a few sips before pushing back from the cup, motioning for Merry to lay him down.

       "He's so hot, Merry," Pippin whispered.  Merry nodded.  Frodo had closed his eyes again, his face flushed and sweated.

       "We've got to cool him off.  Help me, Pip."  Together they slid the sodden nightshirt off over Frodo's head, wincing as he clenched his teeth when they had to pull his left arm up.  Pouring the rest of the cooled drinking water into the basin, they set to sponging him down, trying to work quickly enough so that the constant perspiration did not settle on his fair skin and chill him.

        Merry talked to him while they worked, trying to keep Frodo's attention and prevent him from drifting away from them again.  Merry kept asking questions, prodding Frodo for answers, but increasingly he was met with confused and mumbled replies, then finally silence.  Frodo's head lolled limply and he did not respond even when Pippin put his mouth next to his cousin's pointed ear and whispered, "Frodo – mushrooms!"

         The door opened and Sam returned, his arms laden with towels, leading a parade of Elves.  Two carried the ornately carved tub, and four more accompanied him with large buckets of water.  Last came Aragorn, sent by Elrond to assist the hobbits while the Elf-lord prepared the tonic.  Sam hurried over to his master and looked into his slack face.  "How's he doing?"

         "He woke up for a little while … talked to us."  After the first glance, Merry kept his eyes on Frodo, wiping away the beads of perspiration that gathered in the dark hair and ran down the fevered face.   Pippin took the towels and directed the Elves to set the tub before the fire.  Sam sat down on the bed and stroked the dripping hair.

          Aragorn joined them, reaching over Sam's head to lay his hand on Frodo's brow.  "Ah," he said, his voice soft and regretful, "I was hoping he would be spared this.  I wanted Elrond to let the fever run its course … in a few more days, I believe it would have burned itself out.  But a fever left too long can be dangerous, consuming the body and even damaging the mind.

       "The tonic he used is brewed from powerful herbs.  It alone can be dangerous."  As he spoke, he raised his eyes to the unopened phial that rested on Frodo's bedside table, left there by the Elf-lord and forgotten by them all.  Its vile green color seemed more ominous than revolting now.  Small specks of minced green lay at the bottom.  The Ranger picked it up and pocketed it, wishing he could have stopped the first dose before it was given.

       Frodo moved his head away from the Man's hand, the heat of the contact increasing his discomfort.  His so-blue eyes opened slightly and Sam leaned eagerly into his limited line of vision.

       If the hobbit saw him, or any of them, he gave no sign.  The glazed eyes closed.  Frodo was beginning to toss in fever again, his head turning from side to side as he sought relief from the intolerable heat.  The movement robbed him of rest, of the quiet his body needed.  Aragorn sighed and Sam echoed him.

       Pippin pulled on Aragorn's suede tunic, leaving a small handprint from where he had tested the temperature of the water.  "The bath is ready, Strider."  Behind him, the six Elves bowed and departed, with worried expressions and soft wishes for the Frodo's recovery.   The last, a tall and stately Elf with dark green eyes the color of summer leaves, turned before leaving and said softly, "We will ask Elbereth for his recovery.  All of Imladris knows of the Ringbearer's valiant journey here.  That he suffers because of the evil done him on that journey is a sorrow to our hearts."

      Merry eased off the bed and bowed in return.  Next to him, Pippin bobbed quickly and Sam struggled to his feet and did also.  "Thank you," Merry said.  "We appreciate your kindness."

       The Elf smiled at him sadly and followed after his fellows.

       Aragorn unwrapped Frodo from the damp blankets and lifted him, carrying him carefully to the bath.  The other three hobbits trailed after, surrounding the small tub.  Even from where they stood a step away, Merry and Pippin could feel the heat that radiated from their cousin's skin.

       Aragorn sank to his knees to put Frodo in the lukewarm water, sliding him in gently and keeping a hand under the curly head.  A small wave washed back over Frodo and splashed onto Aragorn, losing Pippin's handprint in a swell of wetness.  The Ranger did not notice, his attention completely on keeping Frodo's head above the water.

       Frodo's eyes opened widely and he thrashed, his right hand reaching up while the left lay lifeless at his side.   "It's all right, Mr. Frodo," Sam reassured him, his grey eyes frightened.  "Strider's got you.  I'm here.  Merry an' Pippin are here, too. We're not going 'ta let anything hurt you."

       Whether he could hear Sam or not, Frodo quieted, his eyes closing again.  He lay quiescent, the almost-warm water soothing the dreadful fire that burned within him.  While not truly aware of his surroundings, he felt protected and cared for and with a sigh, drifted off into his first true sleep since falling ill.

       Merry sighed as he watched his cousin's face relax and smooth out.  Pippin leaned against him.  "What do we do now?" he asked the Ranger.

       Aragorn smiled at him over Frodo's dark head.  "We wait."

* TBC *         


	6. Concoctions and Conniptions

(Author's Note:  Well, everyone, my vacation is over so it will be longer between updates on all my stories.  Sorry!  (Truly.)  But I wanted to thank several people; Chibi Neko, thank you for noticing the careful word usage and vocab – I do care very much about the _sound_ of my stories and often read them aloud before posting them.   QTPie-2488 and shirebound, I thought Elrond could stand some gentle torture, too.  Surely he would feel badly about a mistake that caused such misery, even if it wasn't really his fault.  Floria Tosca, thank you for the comment that my story reminded you of Lily Baggins' "The Pinewood Excursion" – she's the writer I want to be when I grow up.  Frodo Baggins – that _you_, the acknowledged best at Frodo h/c, like my work is too gratifying for words.  To Rose Cotton and Lily Baggins and everyone else who had taken the time to read and review – thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Chapter 6:  Concoctions and Conniptions

       Pippin had almost gone to sleep against Merry's side when Elrond returned with a swiftness that startled them all into wakefulness.  The Master of Rivendell swept into Frodo's bedchamber and was leaning over the almost-submerged hobbit, nodding his approval at Aragorn's execution of his instructions, almost before the hobbits were aware of him.  Placing a long hand on the Ringbearer's brow, the Elf-lord closed his deep eyes for a moment, then opened them and said softly,  "He is better." 

       "The fever is down," responded Aragorn, gently pulling Frodo up and lifting him from the cooling bath.  Sam had occupied the time spent waiting for Elrond's return with laying out towels before the fire, and these were now arranged on the bed.  Frodo was laid upon the warmed cloths and dried. He made no response as he was re-clad in a clean  nightshirt except to yawn slightly and attempt to curl up on his unwounded side.

       Sitting on the bed next to the sleeping hobbit, Elrond gently uncurled his limbs and raised him to a sitting position, leaning him back against Aragorn.  Under the apprehensive eyes of the other three, the Elf-lord uncorked another concoction, this one a nasty yellow color.  Sam, standing closest, hastily covered his mouth and strangled a cough.  Pippin wrinkled his nose and was heartily glad that he didn't have to drink the nauseating liquid.  Merry leaned over and whispered in his cousin's ear, "Just that smell is enough to make _me_ sick.  What's it going to do to _him_?"

       Tilting the phial to Frodo's mouth, Elrond paused and regarded the hobbit.  Despite the careful softness of Merry's whisper, he had heard.  "I fear it will make him ill, Master Brandybuck.  Though that will be uncomfortable for him," and the Elf-lord ignored the small sound made by Pippin, "it will bring up the overdose and return his body to the correct path of healing."

       With a sigh, Sam excused himself to fetch a basin and dip some of the discarded towels into the water.  Merry and Pippin edged back slightly.

       The brief pause had been sufficient to make Frodo somewhat aware that something foul-smelling and vile was going to administered to him, and as Elrond again raised the phial, his dark head turned away from it.  Elrond frowned and chased the small mouth.  Fighting the heavy weight on his mind and limbs, Frodo closed it firmly.

       The Elf-lord sighed in exasperation, and despite himself, Aragorn hid a smile.  "He is astonishingly stubborn, my lord," the Ranger offered.  When Sam glowered at him, he continued, "It seems to be a trait of these hobbits."

       Elrond sighed again and eased the dark head back, stroking Frodo's throat gently.  The semi-conscious hobbit relaxed and his mouth opened slightly.  Quickly but carefully, Elrond poured in the concoction and held Frodo's jaw shut, running his hand forcefully once down the hobbit's throat.

       Frodo's eyes flew open and he choked.  Elrond did not allow him to open his mouth and instinct prompted him to breathe.  Frodo inhaled reluctantly and against his will, swallowed.  Elrond released him and the hobbit sagged forward in Aragorn's arms, staring about him wildly.

       "What –" he gasped out, gagging.  "Aaahhhh…," and scrubbed at his mouth, his whole face crinkling up in revulsion.  Furious now, his wild stare turned to an indiscriminate glare and his cousins and Sam edged back further.   "That was _disgusting_!  What was that?  What are you all doing here?  What –" with a visible effort, Frodo reined in his temper and tried to recover his dignity.  "My lord Elrond, Aragorn…"  he trailed off and gulped suddenly.

       "Oh-oh," said Pippin.

       Frodo's face paled and perspiration bloomed on his brow.  He gulped again, closing his eyes.  All thoughts of his dignity evaporated as he lurched forward and Aragorn slid the basin under his mouth just in time.

       Frodo vomited and vomited, groaning in agony as his stomach cramped and rejected the combination of tonics poured into him.  His flailing hands caught the sides of the basin and he held on for dear life as the Ranger rubbed his back and wiped his face with a dampened towel between bouts.  Sam was speaking to him softly, a constant stream of reassurances and explanations, his grey eyes brimming with tears of pity.  Pippin had covered his own mouth with a trembling hand and was very white.  Merry gently pulled him away and tugged him out to the balcony, where the fresh air and faint music of the rushing waters below served to somewhat mute the sounds of Frodo's misery.

       Elrond watched dispassionately, his noble face serene as he watched the hobbit so painfully bring up all the liquids and foods coaxed patiently into him.  None would have guessed by his outward demeanor the recrimination and self-condemnation that swirled beneath that ageless gaze.  That he had never treated so deathly ill a hobbit before did not excuse Elrond in his own eyes; quite unreasonably, he felt that his thousands of years of experience in the arts of healing _should_ have accorded him enough wisdom to spare the little one this.

        The Elf-lord was startled, though nothing in his face or form betrayed it, when his foster-son reached across the feebly gagging halfling and pressed his shoulder.  "How could you know?" asked Aragorn, his own eyes sad.  "He is much smaller than an Elf or a Man, and already weakened by an evil wound that nearly finished him.  You must not blame yourself for this."

       Reflecting that Estel had indeed grown wiser through the years, the Elf-lord nodded then reached to gently tip the halfling's face up to him.  Frodo sagged bonelessly in the Ranger's hold, normally-beautiful eyes half open but rolled back in his head.  Saliva issued from his mouth and dripped unheeded from the small chin.

       "Ah, little one," murmured the Elf softly, "I am sorry."  Another gentle touch to the sweating forehead and the hobbit closed his eyes, completely unconscious.  Aragorn wiped him down carefully with the dampened towels and changed his nightshirt while Sam removed the basin and carried it away to wash it, gathering the sweat-soaked towels from the bed as he did so.  Hearing only silence within, Merry and Pippin returned cautiously to the room, both looked much less pale.

       "It's over, then?" asked Merry, reaching out to stroke his cousin's dripping hair.  At the Ranger's nod, he sighed then turned and gathered Pippin to him.  Still holding tight to his cousin's waistcoat, Pippin made a strangled sound, unclenching teeth gritted tightly together.  Merry, his own eyes tearing, reached over and rubbed the youngster's shoulder.  The two watched silently while the Man slid Frodo under the covers and smoothed them over him.

       The Master of Rivendell regarded them solemnly.  "You can do no more here, little masters.  It is time for you to go to your own rooms and sleep, so that you may be of use when Frodo needs you.  I want the Ringbearer to drink a little and rest, and let the effects of the tonics dissipate in his body."  A glance down at the still form confirmed his surmise.  "He sleeps now, unaware, and it is best so.  One of us will be with him, little ones.  Do not fear."

      "All right, my lord.  We'll go.  But how soon can we see him?"  Surprisingly, it was the youngest who spoke first, trying to peer around the Elf-lord to see his cousin.

       Elrond smiled down at the insistent young hobbit.  "Return well after first light, if you will.  Frodo will be awake then, and unfortunately, be in much need of some distraction.  It is best if he does not have more than salted crackers and weak tea until luncheon."

        Merry and Pippin exchanged a glance.  "Right, sir.  We'll be here."

       "I never doubted it, my friends," the Elf-lord returned softly.  "Now, let us all depart.  The Ringbearer needs peace to rest."  

* * * * *

       When Sam returned with the freshly-cleaned basin, he found the fire crackling gently and the room quiet, except for the Ranger who now sat is the chair near Frodo's bed.  Aragorn was smoking, the blue swirls of his pipe filling the room with sweet fragrance.  Sam inhaled gratefully, relieved that the aroma alleviated the stink of sickness.

       Sam opened wide the door to the balcony, and the music of the swift waters as well as the faint breezes stirred to freshen the room.  Making sure that his master was well-covered, Sam sank down in another chair and wiped his brow.

       "Not a night I care 'ta recall," he muttered, glancing at Frodo to make sure they were not disturbing him.  They were not; exhausted, Frodo was completely oblivious.

       Aragorn regarded the sturdy hobbit with wry tiredness.  "At least one good thing came out of this … there will be no wager tomorrow.  Today," he amended, with a glance out at the stars.

       Sam scowled, his righteous indignation returning in full, unabated force.  "Nor for several days 'ta come, if I'm any judge."  He looked anxiously at his master again, noting the sunken cheeks and unfamiliar lines etched on the fine-boned face.  "Those two!  Bet on the rising o' the moon, they would, if they thought there was a chance it wouldn't.  Well…" he added more fairly, "Mr. Merry would.  Mr. Pippin, he'd be more like to follow."  Sam sighed gustily.  "He's going 'ta be a holy terror when he grows up, though.

       "Thank Elbereth, that's several years away, yet."   Sam yawned hugely, then put his hand over his mouth, embarrassed.   "Sorry, sir.  I –" another yawn interrupted him.

       "Go and rest, Sam," Aragorn said.  "I know you haven't slept much since your master was hurt.  I'll watch over him tonight."

       Samwise debated with himself for a few moments.  "You'll call me if you need me, sir?"

      "I will, Sam.  Sleep.  Frodo will need you rested and able to care for him tomorrow."

      Sam nodded and dragged himself to his feet.  "Goodnight, Strider," he said softly.

       "Goodnight, Sam."

* * * * *

     The next morning was a trial on the normally even-tempered Samwise.  Frodo was aching and miserable, hungry but nauseated at the thought of eating.  Sam's master was tired and cross and though he did not remember the previous night clearly, did know that he had been grievously treated.  Sam almost warned off Merry and Pippin as they came through the door, then decided the two deserved whatever they got.

       But by then, Frodo had spent most of his anger and was too worn out to muster the energy to really be disagreeable.  He apologized profusely to Sam and apologized too to his cousins, though he wasn't sure exactly what for.  Merry and Pippin breathed a sigh of relief and magnanimously forgave him.

       Frodo rubbed his eyes, which burned unmercifully.  "I seem to recall, though," he mused, "Pippin saying something about betting.  Placing wagers?  What are you placing wagers on?"

       Pippin had frozen, a pasty grin on his sharp face.  His eyes canted desperately to Merry.  Behind them, Sam bristled, unsure whether his master should hear this now.  He needed have worried; Merry rallied magnificently.

       "No idea what you're talking about, Cousin.  It must have been something you imagined in your fever."  Merry smiled at him with his best wide-eyed innocent look, and Frodo regarded him closely.

       "Ummm … I must have.  Sorry, Merry."  Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, sagging back into the pillows.

       "You need to rest, Cousin."  Pippin stood up on his furry toes and leaned over the bed, kissing Frodo's brow.  Merry followed suit, and promising to return later, they let themselves out of the bedchamber.

       "You lot are going 'ta have to tell him," Sam whispered as he followed them through the adjoining room's door.

       Merry grimaced and gave Pippin a slight shove to hurry him out.  "Yes, well, not until he's better, Sam.  Wouldn't want to upset him, would we?"

       Watching them disappear quickly down the corridor, Sam growled to himself, "Aye, an' he's going to be right upset when he – "

       "Sam?"

       "Comin', Mr. Frodo."  Sam shut the door and went to see what his master wanted.

* TBC


	7. Evening in the Hall of Fire

(Author's Notes:  Shirebound, I was so glad to hear that that one sentence evoked "a snicker" from you – that is exactly what I was aiming for.  Even the darkest tunnel must have some light.  Rose Cotton, the vile "yellow stuff" is a memory from my childhood, too.  My brothers and I used to run around in our tee shirts when it was twenty below zero in Alaska, so we probably deserved it.  What _was_ that disgusting liquid?  Since I suffered it, I thought Frodo should too.   A Elbereth, that the story has everything "put in its place" is a high compliment; plotting is so important - and so difficult.  Thank you, everyone, for your continued reviews and enthusiasm for this story.)

Chapter 7:  Evening in the Hall of Fire 

         Clinging tightly to Sam's arm, Frodo walked slowly beside his friend, concentrating on placing one foot before the other, moving his weight forward, and pulling the other after.  Step, move, step.  If he recited that to himself, he could keep himself on his feet and walking.  Merry hovered behind him, his arms half-extended to catch his cousin if he faltered.  Pippin circled around the three like a small satellite, swift feet carrying him from one side of Frodo to the other, his usually cheerful expression worried and strained.

       "Pip, will you stop that? You're making me dizzy."  Frodo signaled a halt by squeezing Sam's arm, and Sam and Merry eased him up against a wall, urging him to lean on them to catch his breath.  Sam looked up the long hallway, but there were no chairs in sight along the polished walls.  Frodo leaned against the wall, half-crouching, his breathing heavy and strenuous.  His face was very pale yet shimmered with perspiration, making his dark curls stand out in stark contrast against his white face.  

       Merry met Sam's eyes over Frodo's bowed head and both grimaced.  Frodo shuddered between them, then straightened.  Drawing a single deep breath, he started walking again then his feet treacherously tangled with each other and he stumbled.  Pippin yelped and darted in close, sliding an arm around Frodo's waist.  Sam could bear it no longer.

       "Now that's enough, Mr. Frodo!  We're not going no farther.  Turn 'im around, Mr. Merry, he's going back to bed."

       "Sam, no.  I'm tired of lying in bed," Frodo protested, gasping as he struggled to pull himself upright.  Pippin released his hold and stepped back again, his green-gold eyes darting anxiously between his elders.  Merry and Sam tightened their grasp as Frodo swayed.  "I want to go to the Hall of Fire."

       "Well, you're not going to make it," said Merry bluntly.  "We're not even halfway there, Frodo, and you're about finished.  You've already had a long day.  Sam's right – we're taking you back to your room."

         To Merry's dismay, his cousin's dark brows quirked then drew down.   "I am going to the Hall of Fire," Frodo replied with great dignity, if not great judgment.  "You may help me or not, but I _am_ going."

       "No," Merry replied.  "You are _not_."

       "Yes, I am.

       "No, you're not."

       "Yes –"

       "Gentlemen, may I be of assistance?"  Aragorn stood before them, smiling slightly.  Pippin heaved a noisy sigh of relief and Frodo glared at him.

        "Good evening, Aragorn," Frodo ignored his escorts and tried to unobtrusively support himself against the wall.   "We are going to hear the singing and tale-spinning in the Hall of Fire tonight.  Would you care to join us?"

       Safely behind his master, Sam looked up at the Ranger and rolled his eyes.  Aragorn smiled again and addressed Frodo.  "I would, indeed.  But perhaps I can offer you some help, Frodo.  You look a little unsteady yet."

       "I am fine, Aragorn, thank you."  Merry scowled at him but Frodo refused to budge.  He pushed himself away from the wall and almost lost his balance.  Quickly, Aragorn reached out and caught an arm.  

       "I can see you are much recovered," said the Ranger neutrally.  "However, my lord Elrond would not be pleased with me if I allowed you to overtax yourself so soon after your illness.  Will you let me carry you to the Hall?"  When the hobbit hesitated, Aragorn continued, "I will set you down before we enter the doors."    

       Frodo eyed him narrowly.  Aragorn kept his expression polite and noncommittal.  "All right," the hobbit agreed.  Then more graciously, he added.  "Thank you for your help."

       Aragorn stooped and lifted him carefully, cradling Frodo's right side against his body.  Frodo's eyes closed momentarily in relief before he forced them open again.  Aragron pretended not to notice, but nodded in reply to the quick smile Merry had sent him while his cousin's eyes were shut.

       The traverse to the Hall was now completed in short order.   As he had promised, the Ranger set the hobbit down gently before the doors of the Hall, holding him cautiously until he was sure Frodo had his feet under him.  Keeping one steadying hand on the small shoulder, Aragorn entered after the hobbit and the other three trailed behind.

       None of them were prepared for the reception that greeted them.  As Frodo entered, every seated Elf and guest of Rivendell in attendance rose to his or her feet.  Every face turned towards him, then every person in the Hall bowed.  

       "Ringbearer."  The Master of Rivendell came forward, his long copper-colored mantel billowing as he strode gracefully to stand before the astonished hobbit.  Then slowly, Elrond inclined his elegant head, and bowed deeply before Frodo.

       Frodo blushed scarlet and his enormous morning glory eyes widened impossibly.  He took a half-step back, but Aragorn did not allow him to retreat.  Behind them, Merry was grinning hugely, Pippin looked intimidated and Sam merely nodded, finding the acclaim being awarded his master simply what Sam felt was due him.  

       The Elf-lord straightened from his bow and regarded the flustered hobbit.  "Ringbearer," he said gently, "will you sit by my side this evening?"

       Too disconcerted to reply, Frodo merely nodded, and his cheeks flamed again as Elrond led him slowly through the ranks of Elves and Men and Dwarves, who again bowed as he walked past them.   He looked back desperately over his shoulder at the other hobbits, but they were being guided to seats of honor elsewhere.  Merry glanced over his shoulder at him, delight at his cousin's predicament dancing in his blue eyes.  Feeling alone and very small next to the tall Elf-lord, the Ringbearer allowed himself to be seated in a small but gorgeously carved chair hastily set on a small platform next to Elrond's.

       That was the signal for those in the Hall to resume their seats and their conversations.  As the volume rose, soft words and gentle laughter, Elrond inclined himself towards the hobbit.  "I am pleased you are able to join us this eve, Master Baggins."  Meeting Elrond's ageless gaze, Frodo felt that the Elf-lord was noting every tremble of his limbs that he was trying to hide.  The Elf's eyes darkened as another shiver went through the small form.  "But are you well enough?" he said softly.

       "I am much better, my lord," replied the hobbit, equally softly.  "Thanks to you and the care of your good people."

       Dark eyes still searching the halfling's face, Elrond nodded graciously.  The little one did not look good, he thought.  Had he known that Frodo intended to attend this eve, he would have forbade it.  But by not asking his permission, the Ringbearer had circumvented his denial.  'Clever hobbit,' he thought with a half-smile.  'I hope he does not pay too dearly for his stubbornness.'

      Unaware of Elrond's continued scrutiny, Frodo was looking about the Hall with pleasure.  The Hall was warm and firelight flickered on the beautifully carved walls and furnishings, lending the wood a living warmth of its own.  Arrayed in silk and fine clothes, gems shining in their hair, Elrond's folk moved among their guests serving wine and sweet liqueurs, their graceful forms and clear voices a delight to the eyes and ears.  The hobbit drank in the sight with shining eyes, his whole face alight and glowing in the reflection of the great fire.

       Frodo had been hoping that Aragorn would be seated close by, and indeed, there was a chair for him.  It was empty, though.  Looking for the Ranger, Frodo spied his broad back in the shadows, talking to someone in the corner.  The fire popped just then, throwing a brief flare into the huge room.  Over Aragorn's shoulder, the hobbit saw the breathtakingly lovely features of Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond.  The two leaned close together, and as Frodo watched, Aragorn raised a hand and gently traced the line of her pointed, shell-like ear.  She smiled, her beautiful eyes shining into his.  Frodo felt a quick surge of joy for them run through him.

       His attention was returned to the Hall when conversation stilled as the musicians assumed their places, positioning harps and lutes, drums, flutes, pipes and other woodwinds and strings.   Some of the musical instruments were completely unknown to the hobbits and they watched eagerly.   A graceful Elf came to stand before Elrond and bowed.  Then he bowed to the Ringbearer, noting with amusement the little one's embarrassed flush.  At his lord's nod, the minstrel gently stroked the ornate lute he carried and in a sweet, carefully-modulated voice as pure as the waters of Imladris, began to sing.

       Frodo heard many songs that evening, sung by one or in chorus; each more lyrical and beautiful than the last.  After a while, he stopped translating them in his mind, content to listen only to the melodies and the music.  They blended in his brain and swirled around his soul and filled him with warmth and peace.

       When a lovely Elf-woman curtsied before him and offered him a glass of wine, Frodo took it with an automatic smile of thanks, his eyes and mind still on the music.  He drank it, and the one after that, reveling in its sweet crispness, and the one offered him after that.  Sitting relaxed by the Ringbearer's side, the Elf-lord motioned for another glass for the Ringbearer.  In his weakened condition, perhaps one more might do it, Elrond thought, as he watched the little one start to slide down into his seat. 

        Frodo smiled dreamily, waving his fingers gently with the music.  There was another glass of wine in his hand, and he drank it without wondering where it came from.  He seemed to see everything through a fine haze, and even the pain in his shoulder and arm seemed oddly remote.  He felt warm and very comfortable.

       After many songs, the tale-spinner replaced the minstrels, bowing again before the Master of Rivendell and the Ringbearer.  He spoke in Westron out of deference to the many guests.  Though the tale-spinner spoke, his speaking voice sounded much like singing, rhymes and lays recounted in a clear voice like summer starlight.  Frodo found his attention drifting and Elrond smiled as he saw the Ringbearer sink into a doze in his chair.  Without interrupting the story, he motioned for Aragorn to attend him.

       "Estel," Elrond whispered, his voice soft and monotone, "will you bear him back to bed?  He knows your touch and you will not disturb him."

       "Of course, Elrond.   I saw what you were doing.  He will likely have a headache on the morrow."

       "Better a headache than a relapse brought about by overreaching his strength.   I will visit him in the morning and see how he fares."

       The Ranger gently slid his arms under the Ringbearer's body and lifted him, turning Frodo so that the hobbit lay with his wounded left side out.   Frodo murmured some inarticulate protest then snuggled into Aragorn's chest and began to snore softly.  Elrond's dark eyebrows lifted and the immortal Elf smiled at the small form.  "What an astonishing folk they are," he remarked softly, lifting a dark curl out of the closed eyes.  "That this small one could have carried such evil through pursuit and overwhelming darkness is an amazement to me."

      Cradling the hobbit against him, Aragorn smiled into his foster-father's dark eyes.  "I have guarded the Shire for many years, as you know, my lord.  An unremarkable race they seem, these hobbits.  Yet beneath the surface, sometimes buried deeply, is a greatness of spirit that rivals the heroes of old."  He looked down at the sleeping halfling.  "And how quickly one learns to love them." 

* * * * * 

        Aragorn was not surprised when a small shadow attached itself to him as he left the Hall.  "Sam," said the Ranger softly.  "Go back and enjoy the Hall with Merry and Pippin.  I'll see him to bed."

       "Thank you, sir, but that's me job," the shadow replied.   "I've enough of all that singing an' story-telling for the night, anyway."  See the Ranger's look of disbelief, Sam flushed and continued, "It's like too much fine wine, it is.  It makes me head spin.  An' I won't sleep unless I know he's settled in proper."

       Sam held the door for Aragorn to bring his sleeping master into his rooms and together they undressed him and clad him in his nightshirt.  Frodo yawned then curled up on his right side, never waking.  

       "With that much wine in him, he should sleep peacefully, without dreams."  Aragorn pulled the bedcovers up over the still form.  "Elrond said he would see him in the morning, to make sure he did not harm himself by this premature excursion."

       Sam nodded, then surprised them both by yawning hugely.  "Sorry, sir.  Guess I'm tired, too.  Odd place, this.  Seems like the days pass in a flash, but the hours pass slow, each one full o' good things."

       The Ranger smiled at him gently.  "Well put, Sam.  Goodnight to you."

      "Goodnight, sir."   Stifling another yawn, the hobbit closed the door and went to his own rest.

* TBC *


	8. Surprises Revealed and Revelations Surpr...

(Author's Note:  Rose Cotton, thank you for the (many) intelligent review(s).  I understand what you are saying about the title "Ringbearer."  I feel it is an acknowledgement for the assumption of a terrible, unspeakable burden.  An acknowledgment of the courage, selflessness and steadfastness, and above all, personal integrity and _honor_ that the responsibility entails.  Shirebound, what an excellent plot bunny.  With your permission, I'd like to use it in an upcoming scene.  QTPie-2488, here is part of what you have been waiting for – I hope it meets expectations.  But I'm not letting Pippin and Merry off yet.  Lily Baggins, thank you for your encouragement and comments.  TrueFan, "ranting" is welcome too.  Thank you for detailing your favorite parts of my stories – that really, really helps in plotting.  To all of you kind readers and reviewers, my sincere thanks for your support.)

Chapter 8:  Surprises Revealed and Revelations Surprised  

       "Leave me alone, Sam.  I want to die in peace."

       "Sorry, sir.  You can't do that yet.  Maybe after breakfast."  Sam slid the well-filled  tray across his master's lap, ignoring the heartfelt groan of pain that issued from the blanket-covered form.

       "Take it away, Sam…   I'm dying, I know I am."

       "Yes, sir," Sam agreed equitably.  "But you've got 'ta eat first.  Lord Elrond's going 'ta be coming by to see you, sir, an' that tray better be empty."

      Most reluctantly, the blankets were shoved aside.  Frodo groaned again as the bright light of the room stabbed into his burning eyes.  Sam winced in sympathy and hurried to draw the drapes across the glassless windows.  He turned to find Frodo back under the covers.

       "No, sir, that won't do at all."  Gently but relentlessly, Sam pried the blankets back from the dark head.  Frodo clutched at them desperately, but his weakened strength was no match for his friend's.   The breakfast tray tilted perilously on Frodo's lap and Sam rescued it and steadied it, then tucked a napkin under his master's chin.

       Defeated, Frodo stared at the beautifully prepared tray, from the small bouquet of fresh fall flowers to the light, fluffy mushroom omelet, flanked by perfectly-cooked rashers of bacon and grilled sausages, potatoes chopped with onions and cheese, and a high stack of browned toast dripping with butter.  "I can't eat all this, Sam.  I can't eat half of it."

       Sam hid his worry under a cheerful smile.  "You jus' eat what you can, Mr. Frodo.  You got some recovering 'ta do, you know."  Privately, he resented the mean trick Lord Elrond had played on his Mr. Frodo, giving him all that wine last night.  It didn't lessen his resentment that he knew _why_ the Elf-lord had sent glass after glass of the sweet, powerful wine to his guest.  Frodo shouldn't have been out of bed, shouldn't have tried to walk down to the Hall of Fire, and definitely shouldn't have sat up by the Master of Rivendell's side for so long to listen to the singing and tale-spinning.  The more evenhanded part of his mind argued that his master had brought this on himself and Elrond had done rightly to incapacitate the stubborn hobbit and return him to his bed, but Sam wasn't in any mood to be fair.

       Frodo was still staring at the food, gauging it against his delicate stomach.  The aromas that wafted up to him in the little curling whorls of steam were enticing, and he was surprised to find that he actually felt hungry.  He hadn't felt hunger in quite some time, it seemed…   Certainly not yesterday, as he struggled to recover from the disastrous overdosing Elrond had mistakenly administered to him.  His stomach cramped suddenly and he hastily turned his thoughts away from those hours of sickness and misery.

       "It's getting cold, Mr. Frodo."

       With a martyred sigh, Frodo applied himself to his breakfast.  The pounding headache began to abate as he ate and he relaxed as his abused body immediately began to draw strength from the nourishing food.  Watching his master covertly, Sam also began to relax, heartily glad that the battle of getting Frodo to eat this morning had been such an easy victory.  Whistling, he pulled back the drapes and the sun filled the room with warmth.  Perhaps he should see that his master got drunk more often.

       A soft knock sounded on the interior door and two curly heads peeked around the doorframe cautiously.  Merry and Pippin let themselves in, much more quietly than their usual wont.  They regarded their cousin for a moment then Merry said, "All right there, Frodo?"

      His mouth full, Frodo nodded at them and motioned for them to enter.  His whole face had lit up at the sight of his cousins, and Sam grinned at the sight.  The two laughed and piled on to Frodo's bed, but carefully, and immediately began to help themselves to the remains of their cousin's breakfast.

       So it was that Elrond found them when he entered some time later, his knock unanswered and unnoticed.  Peals of hobbit laughter echoed through the sunny room, and the Elf was surprised to feel his own ageless heart lift in response.  Young Pippin was describing Frodo's graceless slide down into his chair the previous evening, his small form perfectly imitating his cousin's boneless collapse, and all four of the little ones were nearly gasping with laughter.

       "May I intrude?"  The Elf-lord's gentle voice rode easily over the giggles and shrieks without his having to raise it.  The two cousins slid off the bed to their feet and bowed, as did the little gardener from the head of the bed.  His patient greeted him with dancing eyes, his wan face flushed with pleasure.  Elrond was gladdened to see that there was no recrimination in the beautiful morning glory eyes, his rather undignified trick on the hobbit apparently forgiven.

       "Please my lord, join us."  Frodo gestured to the bedside chair and Elrond seated himself gracefully, sweeping back his flowing mantle with the ease of long practice.

        Reaching over, the Elf-lord laid his slender hand against the hobbit's brow.  Frodo submitted graciously, smiling at him.  "No fever…" murmured Elrond, looking deeply into the sparkling eyes.  The Master of Rivendell returned the smile.  "Now, Master Baggins, it seems a matter of rebuilding your strength.  I see you have already had a good start."  A graceful gesture indicated the gleaming breakfast tray.  "Though I imagine you had some help."

       The other three halflings blushed.  "Well … yes," Frodo admitted.  "But I ate much of it.  Half, anyway.  All I wanted."

       "Good.  If you continue to eat well, my friend, you will soon be able to take that long-delayed walk."

      Frodo smiled at him, pleased but puzzled.  "Thank you, my lord.  What walk?"

      'Now it comes 'ta it,' thought Sam, with some satisfaction.  'Mr. Merry'll not get out o' it this time.'  He hoped the following revelations did not upset his master's digestion.

       To Frodo's confusion, the Elf-lord had raised his deep eyes to his cousins and was regarding them intently.  "Ah…" he murmured softly.  Merry and Pippin were staring at him with a look like a deer caught in a hunter's crossbow site.  Elrond's dark eyes bored into the wide blue and green-gold ones of the halflings, then suddenly he smiled.

       "I believe your cousins have something to tell you, Master Baggins," he said softly.  "As it concerns me and mine, I think I shall stay and make sure it gets said."  The last was delivered in a deeper, less conversational tone and Merry and Pippin blanched.

       Frodo's inquiring eyes turned to them.  Merry looked back at him, a bead of sweat running down his temple.  Beside him, Pippin looked very sorry that he had just eaten.

      "Well?" Frodo said, when neither of his cousins moved to speak.  The three stared at each other.  Sam suddenly found the ceiling very interesting and decided to start counting the carvings on each beam.  Unfortunately, the movement of his head drew his master's attention to him.  "Sam?  Do you know about this?"

       Now Sam was caught, too.  The stocky hobbit was aware that his eyes had acquired that deer-in-the-crosshairs look.  "Ahhh, it's like this, Mr. Frodo … aahhhh…" 

       Frodo's dark brows drew down when no one answered him.  "What is going on here?"  Silence.  Pippin gave him a sickly grin, looking like he was going to throw up.

       That morning glory gaze swept 'round them all then sharpened on Merry.  "Meriadoc Brandybuck," said Frodo softly, identifying the ringleader immediately by knowledge and experience, "you are going to tell me what this is about.  You are going to tell me _right now_."

        "Urk," said Merry.  He tried a pleading gaze at the Elf-lord, but Elrond sat implacable, his arms folded and his dark gaze unyielding.  Pippin was estimating the distance to the door.  Sam was now staring at his furry feet, his cheeks scarlet, evidently counting knot-holes in the polished floor.

      Then Merry met his cousin's darkening gaze, a sunny, pleasant smile on his lips.  'Oh no,' thought Sam.

       "Pippin and I wanted to wait until you were a little stronger, Cousin," Merry began (Sam thought gratefully, 'Thank you very much for leavin' me out o' this!'), "but since you insist…"  Pippin took an unobtrusive step towards the door.  Frodo pinned him with a look and the youngster froze.

       "Pip and I have been saving a surprise for you.  You need to take a little walk to get there … to the Library."

      _"Library?"_

       The single word was echoed in four voices, ranging from started indignation (Samwise) to admiring disbelief (Pippin) to astonishment (Elrond) to absolute joy (Frodo).  While the other three gaped at Merry, Frodo seized his hands and pulled him in close for a hug.

       "There's a _library_?  A real library?  Where is it?  How many books does it have?  Are there scrolls and maps?  Are there books in Westron and other languages?  What is –"  Frodo stopped and laughed, hugging Merry again.  "Oh Merry, how wonderful!  Thank you!  I can't think of any surprise that would be better.  When may I go?  Is it very far?  Pippin, thank you!"  He reached across to hug Pippin too and in his excitement, did not seem to register the youngster's floored expression.

       Elrond found himself torn between amusement and annoyance.  Sam was apoplectic, his round face beet-red above his collar.  The poor hobbit was making strangled sounds, gesturing vaguely about him, too indignant and confused to form coherent words.  Pippin was watching him with a grin, enjoyment replacing shock on his sharp face.

       Frodo did not notice, his attention wholly on the existence of the fascinating Library.  With a visible effort, he reined himself in and addressed Elrond.  "My lord," he asked, "may I have your permission to go to the Library, as soon as I am able?"

       The Elf-lord has finally decided he was more amused by the young Brandybuck's shenanigans than upset.  "You may, Frodo – when _I_ say you are able.  Thank you for requesting my permission," he added gravely.  The hobbit flushed, remembering that he had not asked the previous night, and that the Elf-lord had been forced to resort to gentle trickery to keep him from overtaxing himself.  Elrond watched color infuse the pale cheeks and looked closely at his recovering patient.

       The hobbit was still weak and far too pale.  Already, weariness lurked in the slight form; Frodo just was too excited to feel it yet.  The hobbit had much weight to regain and would have to retrain muscles weakened by fever and the immobility of bed-rest.  With a shock, the Elf-lord realized that the slow regaining of the halfling's strength, brought about by gentle walks of increasing length, would in fact be strengthening him in preparation for Merry's wager.   The Wager, he had heard they referred to it.  Had Meriadoc planned this?  The Elf-lord's dark eyes sought out the hobbit, who was again perching on his cousin's bed, arms waving, describing the delights of Elrond's library.  Frodo's lovely eyes were shining with anticipation.   Even if he had been out-maneuvered by a barely-adult halfling, Elrond decided, it was a small price to pay for the Ringbearer's return to health.

* TBC *


	9. Two Interludes of AlmostQuiet

(Author's Note:   QTPie-2488, perhaps there is a smile or two for you and maybe a sniffle  in this chapter.  Lily Baggins, while this chapter isn't exactly h/c, I hope you will enjoy it.  Zorra, my thanks.  Baylor, your comment about Elrond never having such house guests has birthed a scene – take cover!  TrueFan and tiggivon, I think Merry's too-clever manipulations are going to catch up with him.  Floria Tosca, I agree but Frodo didn't stand a chance against the combination of Sam and Elrond.  Shirebound, thank you and it's coming.  This chapter is rather an interlude, a moment of rest and reflection.  Isn't that what Rivendell is all about?  Again, thank you everyone, for your reading, reviews, and insightful comments and support.)

Chapter 9:  Two Interludes of Almost-Quiet

       "That's enough, Frodo-lad.  We're taking a rest now."  The elderly hobbit could feel the trembling in his nephew's arm and gently guided Frodo over to one of the many benches that lined the small enclosed courtyard outside of Frodo's rooms.

       "Not yet, Bilbo!  I want to walk a little more," protested Frodo, a thin sheen of perspiration making his pale face glisten.  Bilbo shook his white head - twice around the courtyard had taken all of the youngster's strength, and still he wanted to press himself. Ignoring him, Bilbo tugged on Frodo's arm (the right, and very gently) and hitched himself up on the Elf-sized bench.  Frodo was obliged to follow or continue standing … and he barely could.  Stubborness might be a Baggins' trait, Bilbo thought (as he had told those two young rapscallions), but Frodo went clear through one side of stubborn and out the other.

       Frodo edged himself up on the bench and waited for his breathing to even out.  Two turns around this little space and he could barely stand.  How was he ever going to walk to the other side of the world?

       Watching the young hobbit from the corner of his eye, Bilbo mused on the wisdom that age brought.  Frodo was still young enough that everything had to be 'now' for him.  It was only a fortnight ago that Glorfindel had carried his dying nephew into Rivendell and placed the limp form in Elrond's arms.  It had been close, so very close.  It was just over a week that Frodo was out of danger of immediate death.  Or worse… hastily, Bilbo refused that trail of thought.

       With the impatience of the young, Frodo wanted to be better _now_.  Bilbo hoped that last night's unwise excursion to the Hall of Fire had shown Frodo that not always could a determined will override a damaged body.  His poor nephew's hangover had dissipated in fresh air and a full stomach, but Bilbo had stored away Lord Elrond's little trick, to use it himself if he ever had to.

      Beside him, Frodo blew out a final long exhalation and rolled his shoulders carefully, mindful of pulling the closing flesh on the wound.  Bilbo knew it still ached abominably and Frodo had completed most of this afternoon's short walk with his left arm pressed into his body and an odd, strained set to his features.

       "Better there, lad?" Bilbo asked.

      Frodo nodded, then found his voice.  "Sorry, Bilbo.  I didn't mean to be so demanding.  I want to go to the Library, as soon as I can walk that far."  The dark head dipped and Frodo stared unseeing at the fall flowers planted in ordered ranks in the flowerbeds.  "It is terrifying to be so helpless," he added softly.

       Bilbo's generous old heart was wrung for the young hobbit, whom he loved more than any other soul in the world.  Seeing the youngster sitting there, in pain and obviously exhausted, hurt him more than he could bear.  "Frodo, my lad," Bilbo said softly, "why don't you lie down on this nice warm bench and take a nap?  I'll be your pillow.  You look exhausted, my boy."

       Automatically, the lad started to deny that he was tired, then Frodo paused and the mask dropped before the one person he would allow to see him as fatigued and hurting as he felt.  "Are you sure you wouldn't mind, Bilbo?" he asked, thick lashes already drooping.

       Bilbo laughed softly and gently stroked the sweated curls out of Frodo's beautiful morning glory eyes.  "Lay down, lad.  You aren't so grown-up that your old uncle can't hold you while you sleep."

       With a heartfelt sigh, Frodo sank down on the sun-warmed stone and placed his head in Bilbo's lap.  An Elf or a man could not have stretched out on the bench but two hobbits, one leaning against the wall behind the bench, and one reclining, fit perfectly.  In two breaths, the exhausted hobbit was asleep.

       An hour later, Aragorn came to accompany them in for tea.  Letting himself into the courtyard from one of the side doors, the Ranger paused to regard the two motionless forms.  Bilbo had fallen asleep, one hand resting in Frodo's dark curls and the other reaching down to hold the white hand that lay on his breast.  White head sunk on his chest, Bilbo snored softly.  Aragorn saw that the lines of pain on Frodo's pale face had eased, and he slept more peacefully than the Ranger had ever seen him, safe and loved in Bilbo's lap.

      He regretted waking them but Frodo needed to eat.  Placing a hand on Bilbo's frail shoulder, he shook it gently.  With a snort, the old hobbit opened bleary eyes and looked up, then smiled when he saw who had disturbed his rest.  Frodo shifted but did not wake, burrowing deeper into his uncle's warm lap.

      "He doesn't look any older, you know," commented Bilbo softly.  "From when I left him, I mean.  Seventeen years ago.  Samwise and Merry look older than he does."  A withered hand stroked the dark curls and in his sleep, Frodo smiled.  "That's the Ring's doing, isn't it?"

       Aragorn nodded.  "So I understand it.  Gandalf would better explain it."

      As if he felt the weight of their gazes, or heard something named that disturbed him, Frodo's dark brows quirked and he tensed.  Bilbo's hand resumed its gentle stroking and he relaxed.  "He's been having nightmares, you know," Bilbo said in that quiet voice.  "Samwise told me.  He's heard him cry out in the night and come in, thinking he was wanted.  Frodo was all tangled up in the sheets, sweating like he was running a race, with tears streaming down his face.  Sound asleep.  Sam says sometimes he hears him speaking, saying 'don't' or 'leave me alone'…   Sam says he's scared to wake him but he can't stand to just let him suffer."

      The Ranger was silent, sorrow etched on his wind-roughened features.  "Perhaps Elrond could give him something for dreamless sleep.  At least until he can fight off such dreams on his own."

      Bilbo laughed, his voice still soft.  "I don't think Frodo's very eager to take another of Elrond's tonics.  The nourishing ones taste awful, too, even if they don't make him sick.  Now that his poor stomach's recovered, though, I imagine he'll be given them."

      Aragorn nodded again, a faint smile tugging at his lips.  "Elrond has a better measure of hobbits now, my friend.  Such miscalculation won't happen again."

      Bilbo raised his head and Aragorn was startled by the rage in those earth-brown eyes.  "Why Frodo?" the old hobbit demanded softly.

      "Why…" the Ranger repeated, not understanding his old friend's sudden anger.

      "Why Frodo?  Why must he suffer?  My lad never hurt anyone in his life."  The dark brows quirked again and immediately Bilbo modulated his voice, returning to a soft, whispering tone.  The gnarled hand continued its reassuring stroking.  But the fury in his brown eyes was unabated.

       The Ranger was drawn aback.  When he did not answer, Biblo continued.  "Why was he chosen to bear the Ring?  Who decided that he would be chased and hunted and hurt and _wounded_?   He almost _died_.  And now," the old one struggled to contain himself and not disturb the sleeper, "now he will bear that evil thing across the face of Middle-earth, and destroy it?

      "Is it my fault?  Because I found the evil thing?  Have I done this to him – and worse to come?"  Bilbo's face had gone gray, though high color rose in his wrinkled cheeks.  Tears pressed against his eyes.

       The Ranger had no answers for him.  Slowly he knelt by the old hobbit and placed both hands on Bilbo's shoulders, staring into his eyes across the sleeping body of his soul-son.  "I cannot answer these questions, Bilbo.  You know I can't.  I doubt if anyone could, even Gandalf or Elrond."

       The Ranger paused and pressed the thin shoulders.  "You know, Gandalf told me that Frodo asked him that question, back when he first discovered that it was the One Ring which you had passed on to him.  Gandalf told him something like … 'it was not for any merit that others do not possess:  not for power or wisdom, at any rate.'  I can add nothing more to that, other than to say that I have seen the mettle your nephew is made of, Bilbo, and those cousins of his and Sam – and you.  It is indeed the hour of the Shirefolk."

       Bilbo raised a hand from Frodo's thick curls and laid it atop one of the Ranger's on his shoulder.  "Thank you, my friend," he said softly.  Looking down into Frodo's sleeping face, he added softly, "Let us hope it is enough."  He closed his eyes for a moment then scrubbed at them, and gently jostled the dark head in his lap.  "Frodo.  Frodo-lad, wake up."

       "It's too early, Bilbo," mumbled Frodo inarticulately, and tried to turn over.  One knee came in painful contact with the wall behind the bench and he grunted.  "Ow," Frodo complained, dragging his eyes open.  He stared at the wall for a moment, puzzled, then remembered where he was and pulled himself up into a sitting a position, still leaning on Bilbo sleepily.

       "Hullo, Frodo," said Aragorn, gravely.

       "Hullo, Aragorn," Frodo returned.  He rubbed his stomach and glanced around them.  "About teatime, isn't it?"

       'Hobbits really are the most amazing creatures,' the Ranger thought, as he followed them inside.

* * * * * 

      The Ranger would have been most surprised to learn that at that exact same moment, Elrond Half-elven was thinking the exact same thing.  Encountering the young halflings on his way to his study, he had accepted their invitation to join them for tea.  Now he sat with them in his kitchens (somewhat to the consideration of the cooks, who were unused to their lord sitting at one of the great tables and eating on wooden plates instead of in his study on the finest china), and watched and marveled as they ate and ate and ate and talked and talked and talked.

       Pippin, Merry and Samwise moved about him in what seemed to be an astonishing whirl of activity, rarely sitting still for a few moments at the time.  Sam kept trying to serve them and was either ignored or circumvented by the other two.  The two cousins sat for a instant swinging their short legs off the bench, then popped up and down, fetching that, refilling this, helping themselves to "just a bite more" of whatever.  He did not know whether their seemingly-perpetual movement resulted from their youth or their species.  Fascinated, he watched – and listened.  Instead of the thoughtful pauses of Elves, they chattered, argued, interrupted each other, contradicted each other and cheerfully insulted each other.  In all of his thousands of years, Elrond had never experienced such behavior in house guests before.

         After recovering from their initial awe of him, these three treated him almost as if he was a very large hobbit.  Even his most forbidding gaze, known to make mighty Elves quail, did not intimidate Meriadoc.  Pippin still would edge behind his cousin when that ageless gaze turned on him, but the sight of that curly head peering at him from around Merry would invariably soften the Elf-lord.  Samwise he respected as well as liked; the little gardener's loyalty and good hobbit-sense was a wonder to the Master of Rivendell.  Separately, these little folk were a marvel to the Elf-lord; together, Elrond found them a little overwhelming.

         The Ringbearer, Elrond reflected, was actually the one he knew the least.  Frodo had been unconscious those first four days, as the Elf-lord had struggled to save his life.  Then he had been weak and ill, passing in and out of awareness for several days.  Only recently had Frodo been strong enough to even rise from his bed.  Now the problem seemed to be keeping him in it long enough to complete his recovery…

        The Elf-lord gradually became aware of something lacking in his long life recently –silence.  Looking up from his ruminations, he found he was being regarded by three sets of anxious eyes.

        "My lord?"  Merry repeated.

        "Forgive me, Master Meriadoc.  I was lost in my thoughts," answered Elrond.

       "I just wanted to know when you thought Frodo would be able to take his walk around the garden.  I know that last turn set him back a bit.  Do you think he'll be fit in a day or two?"

       "Concerned about The Wager, Meriadoc?"  The Elf-lord smiled to remove any sting from his words.  Merry returned the smile, not at all abashed.  Sitting on the other side of Pippin, Sam looked like he wanted to say something and was visibly restraining himself.  "I have," Elrond continued, "asked Estel to have tea with Frodo and Bilbo.  I will hear his opinion on our invalid's recovery and then form my own."

      Merry nodded, his blue eyes sparkling.  "Fair enough, my lord.  We await your decision."  Pippin and Sam exchanged a glance, then stared at their spotlessly gleaming plates.

* TBC *


	10. Some Things Should Not Be Forgotten

(Author's Note:   To those who mentioned how much they liked the scene of Frodo sleeping in Bilbo's lap; Lily Baggins, Rose Cotton, Tathar and QTPie-2488, thank you.  I could see that so clearly and am glad the sweetness of the scene translated from my vision to yours.  Chibi neko, I appreciate your thoughtful review.  ????, I don't know the answer to your question.  The Company was in Rivendell for two months; I can't imagine the hobbits could stay on their best behavior that long.  TrueFan, yes – amazing and odd.  Mysia, thank you for your comment on Frodo.  I have so much admiration for him.  My thanks, too, to everyone who has read and reviewed this story.)

Chapter 10:  "Some Things Should Not Be Forgotten…"

       Aragorn stretched his long legs and with a sigh of pleasure, swung his booted feet up to the table and tilted himself back in the chair, savoring the aroma of the tea he held in his hands.  He had been no little surprised when a messenger that informed him that his lord wished to meet with him in the kitchens.  The kitchens?  He buried his nose in the mug and inhaled deeply, reflecting that it was the small things; hot tea, a comfortable chair, safety, that made him appreciate his rare visits to Imladris all the more.

       Elrond sank gracefully into a chair across the table and the Ranger hurried removed his legs and sat properly.  The two occupied a small nook out of the way of the cooks but still the kitchen staff eyed them apprehensively, unused to policy meetings among the rising bread and simmering soups.  The Elf-lord smiled at him wryly and cradled his own cup of fragrant tea.  "I began to understand what the halflings see in kitchens," he remarked softly.  "They are an oasis of warmth and comfort, are they not?"  Raising a dark eyebrow at his foster-son, he said, "Well?"

       "He is much stronger," Aragorn reported.  "He is steadier on his feet and can move without so much hurt.  But," here the Ranger paused, "he is still weak and tires easily.  It will be long before he regains the strength lost in fever and pain."

      Elrond nodded; Estel's assessment of the Ringbearer's recovery agreed with his own.  The Elf-lord pondered for a moment, choosing which among his restorative tonics would most benefit his patient.  Aragorn watched him and when he saw the Elf-lord's dark eyes clear, he coughed gently to recapture his attention.

       "There is something else, my lord," he said softly.  "Frodo is having nightmares.  Terrible ones.  They are stopping him from truly resting.  From the degree of tiredness he showed a few minutes ago, I would say he is starting to try to avoid sleeping.  He has asked Meriadoc to choose him several more books from the Library … less weighty volumes than the one you chose for him."  The Ranger smiled briefly as he recalled Frodo's frustration with the learned book of history Elrond had provided the hobbit.

       The smile was echoed by his lord.  "Now that he knows of the Library, he is determined to attend it.  Well and good.  He has not Bilbo's command of our language yet, but has the same love of books and knowledge.  It will spur him on to regain his health so that I will give my permission for him to go."

        "And the nightmares, my lord?"

       Elrond sighed, the smile fading from his ageless features.  "I cannot help with that, other than my giving him sleep-inducing potions.  It would help if he would discuss his fears with one of his kind, or you.  Will he not speak of them?"

       Aragorn shook his head.  "I have tried.  He says he will not burden others with his troubles."

       "If this Quest is to succeed," Elrond mused, "then our stubborn friend must learn differently."

* * * * * 

       Samwise was also experiencing a moment of exasperation with his master.  Upon returning from tea with Mr. Bilbo and Strider, Frodo had crawled into bed and lay there shivering.   Sam had covered him with a warm quilt and received an automatic, "Thank you, Sam."  But the shivering had not abated and now he was visibly fighting falling asleep.

       Sam stole about the room quietly, pulling shut the drapes over the glassless windows, darkening the room and muting the music of birdsong and distant waters.  He began to hum softly as he worked, an old, slow song that his mother had sung to him in the cradle.  Glancing at Frodo from the corner of his eye, he saw that his master had sagged back against the pillows and the thick lashes were drifting shut…

       'Ah,' thought Sam, 'that's done it, then.'  He allowed himself a brief self-congratulation as the morning glory eyes closed completely and Frodo's face relaxed into sleep.

       KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

       Sam winced as his master shot bolt upright, an instant of unidentifiable panic on his pale face.  The outer door slammed then Merry and Pippin piled into the room, pausing in the doorway as they took in the darkened room and Sam's expression.

       "Oh-oh," murmured Pippin.

* * * * *

       The youngest hobbit peered cautiously around the corner, pointed ears twitching, alert to any sounds of pursuit.  "I think we lost him," he whispered to Merry, who was plastered against the wall, gasping.  "Clever of you to throw the books."

       Getting his breath back, Merry nodded.  "Slowed him down, anyway.  I knew Sam wouldn't let anything happen to Elrond's precious books.  Elrond and Frodo both would have jumped down his throat."

       Pippin folded his legs under him and slid down the wall, letting the blanket of fallen leaves cushion his drop.  "Our cousin's always been a bit too scholarly, if you ask me.  Frodo acts like he feels he needs to read everything that's written.  Who needs all that reading and writing?  It's just as easy to remember everything, like we do with The Wager, isn't it, Merry?"

       When his cousin didn't answer immediately, the youngster reached up and tugged his waistcoat, eyeing him worriedly.  "I mean," Pippin continued, "we do remember all the terms, don't we?  Don't we, Merry?"

       "Don't be silly, Pip.  Of course we remember who wagered what.  I get a set of maps if Elrond loses his wager.  Elrond bet that Frodo will complete the walk around the garden, so if he does, then I win." 

       "No, you get the maps if Frodo _doesn't_ do the walk, Merry."

       "No, Pip, that's not right."  Merry paused and looked anxious.  "It isn't, is it?"

       Pippin had been dreading this.  He'd been repeating the terms of each wager to himself for some time, and had managed to get both the wagers and the wagerers confused.  "Lord Elrond," he said carefully, shutting his eyes to better remember, "wagered that if Frodo does, then you get a copy of the maps, on tanned hide.  If he doesn't then he allows Aragorn gets to go on a picnic with Arwen instead of riding to the northern treehabors."

         "Y-Yes," said Merry hesitantly.  "Um – I mean, that's what _Aragorn_ wagered.  If Glorfindel wins, he gets to go to the treeharbors, and Aragorn doesn't have to.  Aragorn gets to go on the picnic if _he_ wins.  Pip, did Aragorn and Glorfindel bet for or against Frodo?"

       Pippin stared at him miserably, terror dawning in his green-gold eyes.   Wordlessly, Merry sank down next to his cousin and started muttering to himself, counting on his fingers and gesturing vaguely at the empty air.

* * * * *

       Aragorn, passing by in a search for Gandalf, saw the two small figures sitting against the wall and arguing, though apparently not with each other.  The larger figure was ticking off something on its fingers and talking animatedly to thin air, while the smaller figure was avidly drawing something among the autumn leaves and driving his point home with determined jabs into the soft earth.  Neither of them noticed him, so involved were they in their debates.  Thinking what odd creatures hobbits were, the Ranger passed silently on.

       As Elrond had not been able to offer relief for Frodo's nightmares, the Ranger had decided that he would seek another type of aid.  It took some time to locate Gandalf, and when he did, it was in one of the least likely places Aragorn would have the thought.  The wizard stood knee-deep in hay in the stables, discussing with the stablemaster the number and type of animals the Company was to take.  He was absently stroking Bill's forehead as they talked, and the pony's great soft eyes were closed in bliss.

      The stablemaster was parading a series of beautiful elven chargers before the wizard, pointing out the strengths and good dispositions of each of the magnificent horses.  Gandalf kept shaking his bearded head and Aragorn agreed; the halflings could not possibly sit these great animals.  And the Dwarf would surely refuse to ride one.  As much as he loved horses, the Ranger agreed with the wizard's insistence on simple pack-ponies such as Bill.

       With disappointment evident in his fair features, the stablemaster acquiesced, agreeing to provide either sturdy pack-ponies, mules or burros as requested.  Promising to return when the Company's plans were more solid, Gandalf gave a final pat to Bill and joined Aragorn and the two moved off to sit on a bale of sweet-smelling hay, enjoying the warmth and wholesome scent of horse.

         Soft-voiced, Aragorn relayed what Bilbo had told him.  The wizard's sharp eyes shadowed when he heard the news, and he unconsciously pulled out his pipe.  He hurriedly returned it to its place in his robes when the stablemaster appeared magically and glowered at him.  "Let us find a place where we may talk this over and enjoy a smoke," Gandalf suggested.

       Passing back the way he had come, Aragorn looked and saw that the two small figures had departed.  Briefly he wondered about that, and with a quick word to Gandalf, knelt among the leaves and stared at Pippin's drawings.  Though half-scrubbed out as if by an impatient hand, he could make out peoples' names and lines drawing one name to another.  The lines held no correlation that he could see.  'Yes,' he thought.   'Very odd creatures, indeed.'

        One of the many white-arched gazebos met Gandalf's requirements for privacy and peace, and the two sank down upon it pensively.  Now both were free to smoke and they did so gratefully, twin wisps of blue smoke curling into the crisping autumn air.  "It will be dark soon," the wizard observed.  "Perhaps Frodo's night terrors have been brought on by too much activity, too soon.  He has been quiet today, has he not?"

       Aragorn nodded.  "Except for a morning visit with his cousins and tea with Bilbo and I, he has stayed in bed and rested."

       Gandalf puffed thoughtfully.  "Ever since I have known the lad, he has had strange dreams.  Very often they have occurred when he was ill…  He has shared a few of them with me.  And I have known more than one to come true."

       "Prophetic dreams?" asked Aragorn.  He was surprised to find that he did not question the idea; if any would have the talent, it would be this slight, dark-haired hobbit with those expressive, clear-seeing eyes.   He felt a moment's pang of sympathy for the Ringbearer; surely such a gift could only be considered another unwanted burden.

        The wizard's deep eyes twinkled at him in the gathering dusk.   "There are many kinds of magic in the world, my friend."  Then the twinkle dimmed as Gandalf grew serious.  "Unfortunately, I know of no such magic to chase away nightmares.  Those are born of deep fears and a restless mind, of a body worn beyond bearing.  The best magic is the love and care of those he loves and cares for."  The wizard sighed.  "There is little that we can offer him besides that.  Frodo must face this himself."

       "But is there nothing we can do to ease him?"

       Gandalf shook his head.  "Encourage him to speak of his fears, if he will, is all I can suggest.  And knowing him of old, I know that Frodo will not.  Not if he thought it would bring grief to another."  Another puff, and the wizard blew out a smoke-ring, which changed colors as it drifted away.  "Yet perhaps it is not such a terrible thing," he muttered, almost below the level of Aragorn's hearing.

      "How can it not be, Gandalf?  He suffers."  The Ranger was indignant for Frodo's sake.  He had seen enough pain in the gentle hobbit; he saw no reason for the little one to endure more, could it be avoided.

       The wizard's gaze turned from inward to outward, meeting his old friend's eyes.  "Some things should not be forgotten, Estel.   Frodo will ever carry the wound, for the rest of his life.  I fear he will never be entirely free of the pain of it.  It will be a reminder, every day of his life, of the existence of evil and the price paid to rid ourselves of it."

* TBC *


	11. Evil Dreams and Evil Plans

(Author's Note: Baylor, your comment on "another fine mess" made me think how much of the humor in this fic reflects Laurel and Hardy. Can't you see them in Merry and Pip? Eris, I agree – thank heavens for shirebound's "Reunion/Return" stories; we need the reassurance that everything is going to turn out all right. Chibi neko and Rose Cotton, if you feel sorry for the miscreants, remember, they set _themselves_ up. QTPie-2488, Frodo may need more rest but it doesn't look like he'll get it. Katakandian, thank you for the compliment on "hobbity humor." Shirebound, I always wanted to explore Rivendell … since the Master didn't show it to us, isn't it wonderful that we can do it ourselves? Everyone, thank you for reading and reviewing this story – if you are enjoying it, think how much I am enjoying your enjoyment!)

Chapter 11:  Evil Dreams and Evil Plans

       "Look," hissed Merry quietly, "this is no time to panic."

       Pippin clung to his older cousin's waistcoat and allowed himself to be towed along.  "I think this is an excellent time!  Can't think of a better time!  Merry, what are we going to _do_?"

       The two were in route to the kitchens in search of 'something bracing', eating being the acceptable hobbit-way of dealing with difficulties.  Pippin's voice had been rising steadily ever since they had left their shelter behind the corner and now was reaching a level of shrillness painful to his cousin's sensitive ears.  Abruptly pulling the smaller hobbit into an alcove, Merry checked that no one was within hearing distance and gave the youngster a light shake.

      "First," said the older hobbit, "we are _not_ going to panic.  Second … it's simple, Pip.  We will just speak with each of the wagers and turn the conversation towards The Wager.   It shouldn't be hard to get them to discuss the terms.  Then we'll just _write them down_.  See – simple!"

        The smaller hobbit was silent, turning this over in his mind warily.  It certainly seemed simple.  At last he nodded, willing to concede that that it might work.  Then his normally optimistic viewpoint of life exerted itself.  After all, what could possibly go wrong?

       As luck would have it, the first wagerer the two encountered happened to be Elrond.   The Master of Rivendell was striding gracefully towards the guest rooms, his long copper-colored mantle billowing elegantly about him.  Seeing the two struggling to fall into step with him, the Elf-lord obligingly slowed and bestowed them an arched eyebrow.  One slender hand held a delicate glass bottle and seeing their eyes drawn to it, the healer smiled.

       "Yes, yet another tonic for your cousin, little masters," he greeted them.  "Hopefully, this one will be more agreeable to his stomach.  Would you care to accompany me to see him?"

        The lordly Elf did not understand the apprehensive look that passed between the two.  The younger one glanced regretfully back towards the kitchens.  Pippin bit his lip when his cousin replied, "Thank you, my lord.  We started to visit Frodo a short while ago but he was sleeping."  Merry left out a few details, his cousin noted.

        The Elf's dark ageless eyes moved from one small face to the other, trying to divine the sub-context between them.  Deciding he did not wish to know, he sailed majestically on, leaving the two to follow in his wake.  "Do you think Sam's forgiven us by now?" asked Pippin softly behind the Elf.

       "Sam isn't one to hold grudges, Pip.  It's not like we meant to, anyway.  It was just bad timing.  An accident."

        Pippin nodded, though he still looked worried.  Eying the lord's elegant back, the younger hobbit dropped his voice even further and breathed, "Are you going to ask him?"

        Merry squeezed his cousin's arm and pulled even with the Elf-lord.  Elrond graciously stopped and waited, his face serene.

       "My lord," began the hobbit, "we know that Frodo isn't strong enough to take his walk yet, but we just wanted to reconfirm the terms of The Wager with you."

       Elrond arched a dark eyebrow at them, wondering why the younger one seemed so nervous.  He certainly had not been so unsettled at tea.  Seeing the Elf-lord's gaze upon him, Pippin blushed a fascinating shade of red and tried to edge behind Merry.

       That one raised blue eyes to his immortal gaze.  Puzzled, Elrond answered Merry's query.  "Of course, Master Meriadoc.  If your cousin completes a turn around my garden, I award you a copy of my maps from Imladris to Mount Doom, on tanned hide.  Does he not, then you and Master Peregrin scrub the base of the fountains in my garden.  Is this not what we agreed?"

       Merry nodded vigorously, his curls jerking in the westering sunlight.  "Of course!  Of course!  That's it exactly!"

       The Elf nodded rather blankly and continued on.  He was not too far away to hear the elder whisper to the younger, "Get that, Pip?  Write it down!"

       "Merry, you're brilliant!"

       If the hobbits thought that the Elf-lord could not overhear their whispered conversation, they were sorely mistaken.  'They have forgotten!' realized Elrond.  'All of those machinations and maneuverings, and they have forgotten.'  He would have laughed if he could have done so without betraying his knowledge.  'That young one needs a lesson,' mused Elrond.  'He must learn greater restraint if he is to endure upon this Quest.  As his elder cousin is incapacitated … I think I shall speak to Mithrandir.'  He glanced back to see the two whispering animatedly to each other.  Seeing his dark eyes upon them, they broke off simultaneously and beamed at him, twin smiles of pure wide-eyed innocence.  'Yes,' thought the Elf-lord decisively.  'I shall speak to Gandalf.'

       Elrond knocked at the door of the Ringbearer's room and waited, the two little ones crowding his sides.  And waited.  At last Merry raised his eyes to the lord's and suggested they let themselves in.

       Entering, they found that Sam was not taking advantage of his master's nap to run errands or wash or snatch a bite; he was sitting in the darkened room by Frodo's bedside, gently stroking his master's hand and singing softly as Frodo slept.  He waggled his eyebrow at them, letting them know that he had heard the knock, but did not cease his ministrations.

       Frodo lay on his back, thick eyelashes pillowed on his cheeks, one hand reaching out from the covers to hold Sam's.  The coverlet was pulled almost up to his chin but he still shivered occasionally.  Though he slept, there was a small worry-line drawn between his quirked brows and he was restless.

       Slowly, Sam changed his song to a soft murmur, then to a hum.  Trailing off, he examined his master's pale face anxiously then gently slid the thin hand under the coverlet.  Frodo protested unconsciously then sighed and relaxed, though the pain-line remained.

       Rising, Sam motioned them back into the outer room, leaving the bed chamber door partially open.  "Sorry, sirs," Sam whispered, with a quick bow, "that I couldn't open the door.  I heard you knock.  But I'd just got him off 'ta sleep an' didn't want to move."  The little gardener's grey eyes stared at the two halflings at his side, and Elrond again wondered what had occurred between them.

        Now those sorrowful grey eyes sought his.  "My lord, he don't want 'ta sleep.  He's been having nightmares, sir, something awful."

       Elrond's dark head inclined gracefully.  "So Aragorn told me," he replied gently.  The Elf-lord raised the phial.  Merry saw that it was a deep rose color, not at all unappealing like the nasty yellow tonic that had made Frodo so sick.  "I have added an ingredient that will encourage sleep, though no medicine I know of can ward off frightening dreams."  He paused and regarded the small, forlorn form, and added softly, "Only the nearness of a loved one can do that, I fear."

       Sam nodded.  "Aye," he agreed softly.  "I know."

      Pippin had drifted silently over to the half-opened door and stood silently watching his cousin sleep while his elders spoke.  Now he returned and nudged Sam.  "He's dreaming," the youngster whispered.

       Immediately Sam turned and hurriedly reseated himself, beginning to hum that soft, slow song the moment he entered the chamber.  Frodo had rolled over onto his right side and was rocking slightly, a thin sheen of perspiration of his face.  Sam captured the trembling hand and began stroking it.  The sleeper calmed, the tense expression easing.

       The Elf-lord bent and began to explain the administering of the tonic in Sam's ear, but the unfamiliar voice, faint as it was, disturbed Frodo.  The pain-line deepened and the thick eyelashes fluttered.  Pippin leaned forward to peer into his face, crooning softly, almost subvocally.  Seeing his cousin calm again, Pippin turned himself around and dropped to the floor, leaning back against the bed.   He placed his head near Frodo's and took up Sam's song, gently raising his shoulder under Frodo's hand until it slipped from Sam's grasp and was captured between both of Pippin's.

        Elrond smiled at the youngster.  Merry tousled his bronze curls in praise, a proud smile on his features.  "Thank you," whispered Sam.  Pip grinned up at them all, pleasure on his sharp face.  Then he drew up his legs against his chest and made himself comfortable, never ceasing in his soft crooning of the lullaby.

        Sam gestured towards the outer room and they reconvened out of the injured hobbit's hearing, with the door safely shut. 

* * * * *   
       "What sort of a lesson?"  Gandalf's bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise at Elrond's suggestion.  The Elf-lord has located the wizard in one of the gazebos, and had joined them there, admiring the autumn colors in the garden.  The wizard was on his second pipe, and had propped up his legs on the white-painted wood, leaning back at his ease and forming fanciful creatures of smoke that dissolved and drifted into the distance.

       "Master Brandybuck is very young and has yet to learn his limits."  Seeing the wizard fix him with a sharp eye, the Elf-lord continued, "Yes, Gandalf, I know, _everyone_ is very young compared to me and thee."  The wizard chuckled.  "Young Meriadoc is gifted with a very sharp mind but has not truly been challenged before, I think.  He will certainly be challenged on this journey.  I would see him develop the self-discipline that will surely be required of him."

       Gandalf nodded, seeing the logic of this.  "Merry will someday be the Master of his little land.  He has rarely had to exert that bright-edged intelligence of his.  I, too, would see him gain some maturity before we set out.  What do you propose, my friend?"

       "You know of The Wager?"

      "Of course.  A most ill-advised exchange of … what do you mean, _The_ Wager?"

      The Master of Rivendell smiled, a glint in his ageless eyes.  Slowly, he explained his idea.

      The wizard leaned back and laughed loudly, his sharp eyes sparkling with a glee rarely seen on that stern countenance.  "Oh Elrond, that is truly wicked."

* * * * *

      The halflings were absent from dinner that night, choosing to stay in their cousin's room and encourage his appetite.  Watching a truly astonishing amount of supper being loaded onto trays for them, Gandalf smiled, glad of the opportunity to begin execution of the Elf-lord's plan.

        He spoke first to Aragorn, and the Ranger promised to fulfill Gandalf's request at first light.  Aragorn put his hands on his knees and leaned over, laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes.  "And my foster-father thought of this?" he asked the wizard.  "Forgive me, Gandalf, but for some reason I would attribute such pure evil to you."

       "Elrond thought of it without any help from me," returned the wizard with great dignity.  "Merry and Pippin are overdue for a lesson."

       "This wouldn't have anything to do with them making you look the fool on the path two days ago, would it, my friend?"

       The wizard drew himself up to his full height.  Then all of a sudden he laughed and leaned on his staff.  "I do not deny that a little payback would be sweet," Gandalf replied, his eyes twinkling.  "But truly, this is for their own good."

        As the two seated themselves at Elrond's table, Aragorn met his lord's eyes and smiled.  Elrond's ageless gaze met those of the wizard and the Ranger, and gracefully, he tipped his wine-glass to them.

* TBC *


	12. A Lesson Long Overdue

(Author's Note:   Tiggivon, you are right, as you can see from this chapter.  Eris, you are right also; Pippin has got to learn to stand up for himself like Sam did.  Ancalime, I think you can guess what direction Elrond is going, now.  Rose Cotton, the Master tells us that Bilbo now spends much of his time in his rooms, except for evenings in the Hall of Fire.  I think he would join the others for meals, though.  Baylor, this is indeed an unequal contest; Elrond could Merry like a bug.  Chibi neko, "confused" doesn't begin to cover poor Merry and Pippin's mental state.  Shirebound, your generous words of praise warms my heart and makes the work worthwhile.  Thank you, everyone, for your expressions of appreciation and enjoyment.  They are returned, tenfold.)

Chapter 12:  A Lesson Long Overdue

       "This is it, then?" asked the wizard, reaching out to receive the list Aragorn handed him.

       "As closely as I can discern," replied the Ranger.  "Pippin did rather a good job in erasing his thoughts.  Such gaps as exist, we can fill with a few words in the wagerers' ears."

       The two were once again at their ease in the white-arched gazebo where they had discussed the lesson to be taught the two youngest hobbits the previous afternoon.  Morning light now illuminated the autumn colors, filtering through the trees and casting the golds and greens, brown and oranges into a totally different landscape.  Aragorn had risen before the sun and awaited its arrival, anxious to read the scribbling in the earth left by the anxious youngster as he and his older cousin wracked their memories to recall the terms of The Wager.

      Gandalf read through the list, and the Ranger watched as the bushy brows lifted, quirked, lifted again and continued to lift.  When at last the wizard put down the paper, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief.  Then he leaned back against the cool wood and laughed and laughed and laughed.

       Unable to maintain his disapproving mien, the Ranger joined him.   "My, my," murmured Gandalf, "haven't they been busy lads."

       "Aye," growled the Ranger, his own deep eyes sparkling.  "I am certain that Elrond does not know the full extent of their little enterprise."  He ran his eyes over the list again, astonished anew.  "And they arranged all of this in just the last few days?  Amazing."

       "And ill-considered … _and_ disrespectful to their host, _and_ immature, not to say inconsiderate of their cousin," added the wizard.  "I have known Frodo since he was a child.  He'll not take kindly to being treated like a pony at the races."  Gandalf's deep eyes glinted as his sharp eyes swept along the extensive list again.  "Yes," he muttered, "a lesson long overdue."

* * * * *    

       "Good job, Cousin!"

       Frodo beamed in reply to Pippin's exclamation, his morning glory eyes shining as he completed four turns around the small enclosed courtyard outside of his rooms.  Though hanging tightly to Merry's arm, his steps were steady.  Still, Frodo was more than glad to ease down on one of the benches in the morning sun next to Bilbo and catch his breath.  Pippin had trailed after the two (and before them, to the sides and sometimes in circles) and was still vibrating with liveliness.

       "Tweenagers," commented the old hobbit, removing the pipe from his mouth to give the bowl a sharp tap.

       "Did we ever have that much energy?" asked Frodo wistfully, rubbing his shoulder.  The wound ached and itched both and was driving him near to distraction.  When Samwise, sitting on the other side of Bilbo, offered him a backrub Frodo accepted gratefully, knowing his friend's careful hands would not aggravate the injury.  As Sam's strong, calloused hands moved over his shoulders and back, he sighed appreciatively and his dark head sagged into his chest.

      "That's enough walking for now, I think," Merry remarked, seeing the tiredness on his cousin's face.  "Pip, why don't you use some of that lauded energy and run to the kitchens for us?  We could all use a pot of tea.  And maybe there are some scones left from breakfast.  And some strawberries?  See if there's any clotted cream, too."

       "And how am I supposed to carry all this?" inquired the youngster.

       "I'm sure you can think of a way to work it out, Pip.  Now off you go."  Pippin heaved a martyred sigh and went to fulfill the bidding of his elders.  "Don't forget the cream and sugar!"  Merry called after him.

      The four leaned back in the pale sunlight and allowed it to warm their clothes and faces.  The quiet minutes passed peacefully, demanding nothing more of them than their admiration for the leaf-dance performed from branch to ground.  Frodo yawned expansively then jerked himself upright when he caught the others' eyes on him.  "I am not going to take a nap!" he declared before anyone could make the suggestion.  "I am tired of laying in bed!   I don't need any more bed rest."  This avowal was rather spoiled by another yawn.

      "All right, Frodo-lad," reassured Bilbo with a chuckle.  Sam met Merry's glance and rolled his eyes.  Merry stared determinedly at the leaf-strewn ground, a smile tugging at his lips.  "Calm down.  No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to."

       "Good!"

       "Oi!  Would someone help me with this, please?"  Pippin struggled in through the side door, his arms barely supporting a huge, well-laden tray.  Sam leaped up to assist him and the smaller hobbit gratefully surrendered the tray.  Pippin picked up a delicate vial from the center, filled with a deep rose liquid, and held it out to his cousin.  "Frodo, Lord Elrond says you have to drink this."

* * * * *

        From one of the gracefully carven balconies overlooking the small courtyard, Elrond, Gandalf and Aragorn stood watching the hobbits enjoy their snack.  "Frodo is much stronger," remarked the Master of Rivendell.  "He is more willing to eat and is recovering faster than I would have thought possible from so deadly a wound."

       "He doesn't seem to like your tonics very much, Elrond," observed the wizard, his sharp eyes sparkling, leaning over the balcony with his hands on the filigree stone railing.

       "I did not concoct the medicine to appeal to his taste but to aid his recovery," returned the Elf-lord, refusing to be baited.  "I believe it is time to suggest to those young hobbits that their cousin is almost ready to take a walk in my gardens."  Elrond's dark eyes roved over the list which Gandalf and his foster-son had presented him.  "Astonishing.  I have known mighty Councils of Men and Elves who could not accomplish so much, so quickly."

        "Aye," the wizard agreed.  "The last time I heard of so complex a plan, I believe it started the war that ended the Second Age."

       Elrond choked back a laugh, turning it into a stifled cough most uncharacteristic of him.  "Let us hope that The Wager ends in less carnage."

* * * * *   

        "Master Meriadoc?  Master Peregrin?  May I have a moment of your time?"  The tall Elf-lord stood before the hobbits, resplendent in his copper mantel, the light breeze pushing his dark hair back from the high forehead.

       Both hobbits bowed hurriedly and rather awkwardly, their arms laden with the depleted tea service.  Not a speck of food remained, Elrond to pleased to note.  He had watched as Frodo ate his share, washing down the last scone with the tonic and many complaints and grimaces of distaste.

      "I am glad to see that you are encouraging your cousin to eat," the Elf-lord began neutrally, gesturing towards the kitchens and falling into step with the little ones.  "He still has much strength to regain.  But his progress has been truly remarkable.  Perhaps he will feel up to completing the terms of The Wager in two days?"

      Pippin stumbled, rattling the teapot and cups dangerously.  Merry caught the edge of the tray, the dishes in his own arms clinking loudly.  The look of panic on his younger cousin's face was ignored by Merry, who titled his curly head back to meet the Elf-lord's deep eyes.  "Two days will be perfect, my lord.  Shall we hold to the hour after mid-day when the sun is at its warmest, as we agreed?"

       Elrond nodded shortly, noting the youngster had freed a hand to yank at his cousin's waistcoat and that the tea service was sliding to the edge of the tray.  Reaching down, he caught it deftly, just before the china toppled over the edge.  Pippin flushed and ducked his head, and struggled to right the tray without tipping the china off the other edge.  The glance of desperation given the lord by the little one could have been for the unruly china or the unruly cousin.

       Hiding a smile, the Elf-lord waited until Pippin's arms were steady under the tray again and then he straightened.  "Agreed, Master Meriadoc.  I trust you have spoken with your cousin and all is in readiness?"

       Merry's beaming smile faltered somewhat.  "Ahhh," he grimaced, then rallied.  "Don't worry about that, my lord.  Frodo will be ready, I promise."

       "Excellent.  I assure you that I am looking forward to it."  This was delivered with a deep stare into the halfling's bright blue eyes.  The Elf-lord awarded them a half-bow and continued on to his study, satisfied that his plan of retribution was in motion.

      "Pip, quit pulling on me!  I'm going to drop these dishes if you don't!" 

      At that moment, Pippin did not care about the dishes, tea service or Merry's favorite bright gold waistcoat.   "Merry, we aren't sure who said what!  And Frodo doesn't know!"  The tugging stopped as Pippin contemplated the enormity of telling their cousin what they had promised in his name without his knowledge or agreement.  His recent snack roiled in his stomach and he suddenly felt sick.

      "That just means that we need to get to work.  First, Cousin, we are taking these dishes back.  All right?  And we'll pick up something more for Frodo and get it down him.  Some chicken soup, maybe…"  Merry pushed Pippin ahead of him while thinking out loud.  "Then we'll speak with everyone and make sure we have the terms right.  Will you relax, Pippin?  We have two days yet – that's lots of time."

       Strangely, Pippin's upset stomach did not settle at his cousin's easy reassurances.  And it was right, for it all started to go wrong as soon as Merry tried to urge Frodo into joining them for elevenses.  "No thank you, Merry," Frodo repeated politely, puzzled at the younger hobbit's insistence.  "Maybe later."

       Merry waved the bowl of soup enticingly under his cousin's nose.  The aromas drifting up from it were truly delicious … but Frodo wasn't hungry.  The soup had gone cold when Frodo finally lost patience and firmly asked Sam to escort his cousins out.  Sam looked more than willing to do so, growling under his breath as he trailed them to the door.

       "I know wot you're up 'ta," he hissed at them when they were safely beyond Frodo's hearing.  "Shame on you!  Mr. Frodo's going 'ta be real angry when he finds out, and it'll be your fault.  He's not strong enough 'ta get riled, yet.  I hope you lose every wager you made!"  With that, the door was resolutely closed upon them.

       "That didn't go so well," observed Pippin.

       Merry cast him an annoyed look.  "Never mind," he returned with forced cheerfulness.  "We'll come back this afternoon for another few turns around the courtyard and we'll take our meals with him.  We can always get him to eat more than he would otherwise.  Hummm…  I'll ask the cooks for lots of mushrooms for the Ringbearer; they'll be happy to help get him to eat.   Right, then."  Merry squared his shoulders and with a visible effort, regained his equilibrium.  "Let's go find our gamblers and make sure we've got the terms right."

* * * * *

        "You must be mistaken, Merry," said Aragorn.  "I agreed that if your cousin is able to complete a turn around my lord's garden, then you will make arrangements with Elrond to grant me a reprieve from having to scout the northern treeharbors.  If he isn't strong enough – or stubborn enough – then I ask my lord if you two can help in the kitchens."

      "Not help," began Merry, "_eat_.  We wanted you to ask Lord Elrond if we could have second breakfast, as much as we can eat, for a week."

       The Ranger eyed them, his expression completely deadpan.  "No, you wanted to _help_ in the kitchens, in preparing second breakfast, for a week.  I suppose you could eat some after you are finished working.  I thought you wanted to learn Elvish cooking."

       "No, no.  I mean, I would like to learn Elvish cooking, of course, but –"

       "Well, that's settled then," said the Ranger decisively.  "I'm looking forward to this.  It should be immensely entertaining."  With that, the tall Man turned on his heel and strode away at a pace the hobbits could not possibly hope to match.

       Pippin stared at his cousin, perplexed.  "What happened?"

* * * * *

       "No, that's not it at all."  Merry was certain there was a gleam in the old hobbit's eyes as he refuted what Merry remembered they had agreed upon.

       "But Bilbo," Pippin began, confused, "I'm sure you bet that Arwen sings for you if Frodo makes the walk, and you supply Merry a copy of Elrond's maps if he doesn't.  I'm sure that's right!  Isn't it, Merry?"

       "Half-right, Pippin-lad."  Merry thought the gleam was becoming a sparkle and he tried to fix the old hobbit with a suspicious glare, which Bilbo totally ignored.  "Arwen sings for me if my boy does make it, and he doesn't, then Merry copies down all of Arwen's songs for me."

       "_I_ copy –"

       "Yes, of course.   Isn't that right, Pippin, my boy?"

       "Copying certainly came into it somewhere," replied Pippin miserably.  "And Arwen singing … yes…"

        "Right!  Off you go, then, lads.  I have work to do.  See you at luncheon."

        "But Bilbo –"

        "Now don't dawdle, you two.  Can't stand how young people stand around all day.  Out!"

* * * * *       

        The two finally ended up in the courtyard as the sun was climbing towards its zenith.  Merry and Pippin sat on one of the benches in the sunlight, feet pulled up to their chests and covered with their cloaks.  After a rather vigorous argument concerning who remembered what, they were silently turning over the morning's events in their minds.

       At last Merry sighed and dropped his short legs off the bench.  "Pippin, my lad," he said softly, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

* TBC *


	13. A Little Suffering is Good for the Soul

(Author's Note:  Lily Baggins, I think Merry's cleverness if about to backfire, too.  Maybe it will teach him something.  Zorra and A Elbereth, a "dirty trick" and "sneaky" – hey, Merry started it!  A Elbereth, thank you for the compliment.  Helga, my thanks for saying what parts you especially liked.  Rose Cotton, Frodo's 'revenge' – is that nice? [and yes, it's coming].  Tiggivon, if Merry and Pip had _written down_ the terms, they wouldn't be in this mess.  Let that be a lesson to us all.  TrueFan – yup, and I wanted to tell you that I am indeed honored to be on your Favorites list.  Again, my thanks to everyone who has read and taken the time to review this fic.  I hope to have one more chapter out before my houseguests arrive for two weeks [after which I expect to be committed – I hope the asylum has Internet access] but if I don't, best wishes to everyone for a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!)

Chapter 13:  A Little Suffering Is Good for the Soul

       Merry hopped off the bench and pulled his younger cousin after him.  "We've still got time before luncheon to speak with one more person.  Gandalf … no.  Maybe not Gandalf.  Hummm…  Come on, Pip.  We're going to find Glorfindel."

       Pippin obligingly followed and the two checked the stables (petted Bill), the gardens (admired the flowers), the Library (looked wistfully at the maps), the kitchens (didn't think the lordly Elf would be there but wanted a snack) and finally located Glorfindel in the armory.

       Glorfindel was sparring with another Elf in an intricate and deadly dance of flashing knives.   The training floor was polished wood, gleaming and smooth, and the Elves were barefoot on its slick surface.  Their feet made muffled booming thuds in the vast echoing space; one of the few times, Merry reflected, that he had ever heard an elven footfall.  Not daring to distract the combatants by calling attention to themselves, Merry and Pippin sank silently to the floor well clear of the practice arena and watched.  Glorfindel and his opponent moved without armor or shield, distaining the use of wooden practice-blades.  Attack and counterattack, thrust and parry, the long-bladed knives rang and chimed against each other.  The two Elves moved with a grace and speed beyond the comprehension of mortal folk.  The two watching suddenly felt keenly the weight of their mortal clay, the ungainliness of their limbs as compared to the slender swiftness of these two opponents.  Yet the two sparring were surpassingly careful; the razor-sharp blades passed within a hair's thickness of each other's faces and forms but never grazed the flesh.

       Their dance was beautiful, but lethal.  Watching silently with awe on his sharp face, Pippin felt himself oddly grateful for his simple hobbit heritage, which had never sought war or battle and was content with tilling the green earth and the growing of fields.  Merry watched with equal fascination but darker thoughts.  He found himself trying to analyze the pattern of their dance, to anticipate a coming attack and think how to counter it.  With a small shock, he realized that he was already planning the defense of his cousin on this journey.  Merry's thoughts strayed to his own small sword, untouched since their arrival at Rivendell.  To the realization of how little help he was to the Ringbearer.  And now this silly Wager…

       At last the deadly dance slowed and stopped.  At no signal the hobbits could see, the two halted and for a moment stood panting on the polished floor, the sunlight streaming in from the high windows (set well above the combatants' sightlines to avoid blinding them during a match), making their hair glow and skin glisten with perspiration and an inner light that seemed to shine through their flesh.  Then both bowed to the other and sheathed their long blades.

       Wiping his face with a cloth, Glorfindel came to the two watchers and both scrambled to their feet, a little shy at what they had just witnessed.  Seeing the apprehension on their small faces, Glorfindel laughed and bowed slightly.  "A good match, little masters," he greeted them graciously.  "Would one of you care to wield a practice-blade?"

       Pippin shook his head wordlessly.  "I would, Glorfindel," answered Merry softly, "another time though, as we must meet Frodo for luncheon.  May we speak with you?"

       "It would be my pleasure," answered the lordly Elf, though Merry thought he gave them rather an uncomfortable glance.  Glorfindel led them to a bench by the amour rack and motioned them to sit.  "What would you have of me?"

       Again Merry went into his spiel, watching the Elf's face closely.  Yes, he definitely looked uncomfortable.  Very uncomfortable.  The Elf had dropped his gaze from Merry's eyes and was staring fixedly at the polished floor.  "And so, Glorfindel," Merry concluded, "I wanted to ask you what _you told me_ were the terms of your bet."  'There,' the hobbit thought, 'let's hear his reply to a direct question.'

       An ear-shattering clatter covered the Elf's first words.  They both jerked up to see the last of the practice-blades and other wooden weapons falling from the armor rack.  Like dominoes, each weapon knocked down the one beside it and spilled to the floor in a thunderous clang.  A small circular shield rolled completely around Pippin and rattled to a deafening stop by the tweenager's furry feet.  Pip stood in the center of the destruction and looked about him blankly.  "Oops."

* * * * * 

        Helping Glorfindel replace the practice-weapons took all of the two's remaining time and with a sigh, Pippin realized they would be late for luncheon.  He hadn't meant to knock everything down, he just wanted to look at one of the practice-blades.  But now Merry was more determined than ever to have his theory of conspiracy against them confirmed.  Pippin didn't know what to think about that; what people were saying didn't _seem_ right, but at the same time it did sound familiar.  When Merry decided that lunch could wait, Pippin disagreed strongly but was still towed along to find the Lady Arwen.  _She_ wouldn't do them dirty, his cousin declared.

        Upon hearing the object of their search, Pippin immediately began brushing his clothes and trying to rub off the dirt that seemed to inevitably congregate about him.  Yanking his fingers through his curls and pulling out the snarls, he hurried after his cousin.  Merry was already disappearing back into the House, and had asked two passing Elves of the Lady's whereabouts.  Pippin caught up with him just as he was passing through the garden to enter the Library.

       "Good," remarked Pippin, breathing hard.  "We can get Frodo some more books.  He's read most of what we got him already."

       Pippin ran square into his cousin's back as Merry stopped dead and swung to face him.  "Frodo wants more books?"

      "Yes, Merry," replied the youngster, confused.  "You heard him say that.  Did you have to stop so suddenly?  He said it when –"

      "Ah, Pippin-lad, you're brilliant!"  The older cousin pulled the younger in for a quick hug, then he was gone up the steps and into the building.

     "It's a Took trait," said Pippin modestly to the audience of himself, since he stood alone among the fall flowers.  "What am I brilliant about?"

* * * * * 

       Pippin followed his ears and came upon his cousin and the daughter of Elrond in the rotunda at the center of the enormous Library.  The great circular room boasted deep chairs of surpassing comfort and carefully supplied and trimmed reading lamps.  Books lined the two-story rotunda from floor to ceiling, branching out into row after unending row, deep into the two side wings of the building.  It was quiet and wonderfully peaceful and the smell of slightly musty books was warm and reassuring.  It was one of Pippin's favorite places in Rivendell.  Excellent place for a nap. 

       Arwen reclined gracefully in one of the great cushioned chairs, a scroll dangling from one fine-boned hand, as she inclined her dark head to listen to Merry's words.   She nodded elegantly and Pippin reminded himself not to gawk this time and make himself the fool.  How beautiful she was … flawless skin like the finest ivory…

      "Pippin?"

      Hair like flowing obsidian, dark eyes like living jewels…

      "Pippin?"

      As graceful as a willow tree in the spring breeze…

      _"PIP!"_

        The tweenager blushed bright red as he realized that once again he had been caught wool-gathering.  Arwen smiled at him gently, which only increased his humiliation.  Merry awarded him a disgusted look and turned back to the elven princess.

       "And so, my lady, Pippin and I wished to confirm the wager you placed on our cousin's little effort.  Would you mind?"

       "Not at all, Master Meriadoc."  The Elf-woman's voice was as lovely as her form, thought Pippin.  "If Master Frodo is not sufficiently recovered to complete the circuit around my father's garden, then I will sing for Bilbo the songs of my mother's people.  It would be my pleasure.  If Frodo is strong enough to complete the walk, then you will arrange with my father to grant Estel reprieve from riding out on a scouting trip, that he may spend the day with me on a picnic.  Is that not what we had agreed?"

       "Yes, thank you.  Just checking.  So glad to have that cleared up.  Pippin?"

         A voice like the cooing of doves, the singing of a brook over a grassy shore…

        "Oh, Pip – you're hopeless.  Come on."

* * * * *

       They were quite late to luncheon.  Sam gave them an indiscriminate glare as he opened the door, still clearly in a snit.  Nevertheless, he ushered them in to join their cousins, who had already selected their favorites from among the heavily-loaded trays that had already been delivered.

       "Well, hullo at last," Frodo greeted them.  "Glad you could make time to join us." 

 Sitting next to him, Bilbo snorted then applied himself to a delectable mushroom pot pie.  Merry briefly debated the wisdom of tackling the old hobbit again but didn't dare try to worm the truth out of Bilbo in Frodo's hearing.  Feeling frustrated and somewhat abused, he loaded his plate and sat down to eat.

      "Merry," murmured Pippin around a mouthful of cheese, "you're making yourself upset over nothing."

       Merry shook his head.  "Something's not right here, Pip.  Something's just not right…"

       "Merry?"

      " What?"

      "Remember the 'arrangements' Arwen mentioned?  Have you given any thought to these 'arrangements' we have to make with Lord Elrond if people win their wagers?  I mean," Pippin rushed on when Merry paused to look at him, "we didn't specify the terms first.  We have to do anything he tells us to."

       "Tell you to do what, Pippin?"  Frodo eased himself into one of the chairs and leaned carefully against the padded back.  Once he was settled, Sam slid his tray onto his lap, managing to work in a quick glare at the two while his master's attention was occupied by the food.

      "Ah – nothing.  Nothing at all."  Merry's quick interruption earned him a surprised look from Frodo.  Merry quickly buttered a slice of bread and beamed at his cousin.  "Frodo, you're so much better.  Why don't you come with us to the Library the day after tomorrow?  Pippin reminded me that you wanted some more books.  There must be _thousands_ of books and scrolls and maps." 

      Frodo's morning glory eyes gleamed with excitement.  "Why wait until then?  Let me take your arm, Cousin, and we'll go after lunch.  I'd much rather do that than walk around the courtyard again."

      Merry choked and Frodo gave him a concerned glance.  "_No_, no, Frodo, you can't do that."

      "Whyever not?"

      Desperate, Merry cast through that quicksilver mind of his.  "Because you haven't received Lord Elrond's permission yet.  I don't think we want a repeat of the Hall of Fire incident, do we?"

      "Noooo…" Frodo admitted.  "I should do him the courtesy of asking."  He sighed deeply, those beautiful eyes shadowed.  "There is so much of Rivendell I haven't seen yet.  Neither has poor Sam.  We haven't even been to a single feast."

      "You haven't missed much, Frodo," Pippin interjected in an attempt to be comforting.  "It's just music and singing and fine wines and eating much too much wonderful food –"

       "We'll ask Lord Elrond if you can come tonight, Frodo!"  Merry grinned, seeing another detail taken care of.  "Do you good to get some real food in you.  Then when he sees how well you are eating, you can ask him for permission to visit the Library.  It truly is a marvelous place, Frodo.  And to get there, you have to walk through one of Elrond's gardens.  You'll enjoy that."

        Sam made a stifled sound and Frodo turned to him.  "Are you all right, Sam?"

       Eyes fixed on his own tray, Sam nodded.  A red flush began creeping up from his collar.  "Jus' something caught in me throat, sir."

       "All right, then," replied Frodo.  "A few more turns around the courtyard this afternoon and I'll have no trouble walking to the Hall of Fire this time."

       "After your nap, sir."

       "Sam, I don't _want_ to take a nap."

       "Listen to Samwise, Frodo-lad."

       "Yes, Bilbo."

       Listening to his kin and friends talk, Merry felt himself relaxing.  He'd get to the bottom of this … just not right now.  Not until after luncheon, anyway.

* TBC *


	14. Lessons Learned and Lessons Needed

(Author's Note:   Hooray – I got this chapter up before my houseguests descend.  A Elbereth, your memory is good – Arwen did not "fudge" on The Wager.  Funny how all the mortal folk lied through their teeth…   Bookworm, no worries – the Fellowship was in Rivendell for two months and Frodo & friends have only been there a fortnight.  There are a lot of places I'd like to go with this story, if people want.  Shirebound, it is largely at your urging that I am going to try to turn this story into a novella, and I'll share Pippin anytime.  I have enjoyed your work so much that I am pleased to return even a little of that enjoyment.  Katakanadian, I like your word selection better and changed it in my original draft.  QTPie-2488, what you've been waiting for occurs in the following chapter.  Tathar, thank you for saying you liked that little bit of dialogue – it's the heart-warming moments, like Baylor and shirebound write so well, that stay with us.   I hope you all are enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it, and I thank you for your comments and reviews.  Thanks for the Holiday wishes and my Best Wishes to everyone – you've really brightened my year and I'm grateful.)

Chapter 14:  Lessons Learned and Lessons Needed

       True to his word, after luncheon Merry left to seek out the Master of Rivendell to formally ask permission for Frodo to come to that evening's feast and then attend the Hall of Fire.  Pippin had declined to accompany him, volunteering to carry back all the trays and dishes.  It would take him several trips, which was just fine with Pippin.  He had no desire to stand under that ageless, considering gaze that looked like the Elf-lord was counting every smudge on his face and transgression in his mind.

       Sam had given the tweenager strict orders not to disturb Frodo during his nap, which offended Pippin mightily.  Accidents like the armor rack just seemed to happen to him.  He certainly didn't set out to cause a disaster.  That trail of thought reminded him to pay more attention to the last tray of dishes he was carrying, just as they were sliding towards the edge.  Returning, Sam met him at the door before he could knock.  Bilbo had returned to his room for his own nap (Pippin suspected) and after a final check on the sleeping Frodo, the two hobbits decided they could enjoy a quiet smoke in the courtyard.

       Sam and Pippin sought out the warmest bench in the deserted enclosure and filled their pipes, leaning back against the wall in contentment and engaged in a lazy contest to see who could blow more smoke-rings from a single puff.  The wan October sun imparted little warmth and they pulled up their hoods and drew their legs up on the bench, wrapping their cloaks around their feet, resembling nothing so much as those conical mud-pots from which steam emerges in winter.  

* * * * *

       A casual observer would never have guessed that young Master Brandybuck was apprehensive about speaking to the Lord of Rivendell.  As the future Master of Buckland, Merry had learned early the importance of holding a public visage.  Expression resolutely cheerful and curly head held high, Merry requested admission to the Lord's study and within minutes found himself under that inscrutable, immortal gaze.

      "Good afternoon, Master Meriadoc," Elrond greeted him graciously.

      "Good afternoon, Lord Elrond," Merry returned, determined to uphold his end of the courtesies.

      Then he had no idea what to say.  'Did you tell folk to alter the terms of our bets so that I lose, no matter what?' seemed rather too blunt.  So did 'Have you instructed your people to take advantage of me?'

        "Ahhh…" he tried valiantly.  Those dark ageless eyes bored into him and made it impossible to think.  Merry started to perspire profusely.  Elrond closed the book he had been reading and sank gracefully into a chair, his fathoms-deep gaze never leaving his guest.  Even seated, he was taller than Merry and suddenly Merry was very aware of the fact.  And of the fact that his clothes could use a good brushing and his hair probably needed combing.  Was he missing a button on his waistcoat?

       The Elf-lord said nothing but waited with the patience of one who has watched the earth turn under him for thousands of years.  Merry could feel his face growing hot.  The Lord only regarded him unwearyingly, sitting with the stillness of one of the statues that graced his gardens.  Merry's brain demanded that he ask the questions burning in his mind but under that ageless gaze, his throat locked.  Stifling a groan, the hobbit gritted his teeth and stammered out a lesser query, "My lord … my lord, may Frodo and Sam have your permission to attend the feast tonight and go to the Hall of Fire afterward?"

       "I believe your cousin is sufficiently recovered for such an activity, Master Meriadoc.  He has my permission.  Samwise could have joined us at any time, of course, would he leave his master.  Shall we see them this evening?"

       "Yes, my lord."

       "Excellent."  Elrond dismissed him with a nod, the barest lowering of his chin.

       Merry paused in the doorway and made one last attempt.  "My lord?  Did you … did you…"  The Elf-lord's immortal gaze centered on the little one, the laughter lurking there too deep for the hobbit to see.  "Will you also give permission for Frodo to visit the Library?"

       "Granted," said Elrond in a gentle voice.

        Defeated, Merry trudged out the door.

* * * * *

        "What's that?" 

        Sam's sandy head jerked up.  Then he was on his feet and running back into the House before Pippin had really registered the cry.  With the quick reflexes of the young, Pippin snatched up Sam's fallen pipe before it set something afire and was after him, arriving just a moment later to see Sam dash to Frodo's bedside and slide his arms around him.  Frodo was sitting up in bed, not awake but no longer sleeping, caught in the throes of a nightmare so terrible that he had screamed out in his sleep.

       "No, no sir, they're not here.  You're safe, Frodo.  You're safe.  Easy, me dear.  They can't get 'ta you here…"  Sam's voice continued on in meaningless reassurances as he continued to cradle his sweat-soaked master.  Frodo clutched at his arms desperately, his eyes wide and blank, utterly terrified. 

       "Mr. Pippin, will you hand me that bottle over there?"  Sam continued to hold Frodo tightly, rocking him slightly and murmuring to him.  Frodo was shaking violently, his face absolutely without color except for the enormous morning glory eyes, focused inward on the half-remembered terrors of his nightmare.

       Pip scooped up the phial of rose-colored liquid and Sam tried to get him to drink it.  Frodo refused, burying his head in Sam's chest and continued to tremble, his gasping breaths painful to Pippin's ears.  Unable to really help, Pippin crouched by Sam's side where his cousin could see him and added his soft voice to Sam's.

       "Shall I get Strider or Lord Elrond?" 

       "No – no…"  Frodo visibly fought to collect himself.  "I-  It-  It was … just a dream.  A  dream."

        Pippin cautiously eased himself up onto the bed where he could rub Frodo's back.   Frodo stiffened, then relaxed and the shaking started to subside.  At Sam's quiet suggestion, Pippin brought his cousin a cup of water and saw Sam quickly pour in the rose-colored liquid and swish the cup before giving it to Frodo.  Frodo needed both hands to hold the cup, swallowing the liquid without really being aware of it.  He choked on the last sip and Sam gave him a couple of hard taps across the back to help it down.

       Strangely, that settled Frodo more than their soft-voiced reassurances.  Perhaps it anchored him to the waking world, where nothing stalked him and sought to take that which he had been entrusted.  Shuddering, he handed the cup back to Sam and dropped his face into his hands, the racking tremors diminishing into shivers.

      "I think I ought to get Strider, Frodo.  I'll be right back."

       Sam nodded vigorously but Frodo caught Pippin's arm as he started to rise.  "Pip, no.  I'm all right.  Truly."

       Pippin sank back down, unsure of what to do.  That Frodo was _not_ 'all right' was excruciatingly obvious.   "How long have they been getting worse?" he asked Sam softly over Frodo's bowed head.

       "The last week or so," Sam replied, equally softly.  "He won't let me tell no one."

        "I can hear you, you know," Frodo pointed out, recovered enough to be annoyed.  "It was just a dream, Pippin.  Don't fuss.  I'm sorry I startled you and made you run in here like that."  Frodo stopped and tried to rein in his irritation.  "Out in the courtyard, were you?"

       "Aye, sir.  Mr. Pippin an' me was just having a smoke – _my pipe_!"

       Pippin silently handed it to him.   Sam grasped it then darted a look out the balcony windows, probably expecting to see all of Rivendell in flames.  Seeing the look of relief on his friend's face, Frodo laughed shakily.  "I doubt Lord Elrond would appreciate you burning down his home, Sam."

       Less inclined towards seeing the humor of his close call, Sam nodded.  "All this old wood would go up a treat," he commented.

       It was that last remark which Merry heard as he rejoined his fellows in Frodo's room.  He had sat for a while in the garden, trying to figure out a way to shorten the distance his cousin had to walk and so increase his chances of winning The Wager.  Unable to come up with anything plausible, he had abandoned the attempt and sought out Pippin, only to find the rooms they shared empty.  That minor irritation – Pippin not being where his cousin expected him to be – added to the sound trumping he had received from Elrond.  "I'll vote for that!"

       When the others turned to him, shocked, Merry said contritely, "All right, all right, I didn't mean it."  In his mind, he added, 'Pity we can't burn down just a wing or two, though.'

       "What put you in so sour a mood, Cousin?" Frodo asked him. 

      Merry plopped himself down in a chair near the others and shook his head, struggling to sweeten his temper.  "Nothing, really.  Nothing.  Frodo, I spoke with Lord Elrond and you may attend the feast tonight and go to the Hall of Fire.  And you may go the Library, too."

       The last of Merry's aggravation disappeared in his cousin's delighted thanks.  Pippin and Sam were both looking at him carefully, no doubt trying to work out his conversation with the Elf-lord.  Well, they could just keep working on it.  Merry wasn't going to recite the details of that humiliating experience to anyone.

        "Ready for a few turns around the courtyard, Frodo?  You'd better get dressed."  Merry leaned forward and fingered the sleeve of Frodo's nightshirt curiously.  "Why are you all sweaty?"

       Immediately he knew that something was wrong.  Looking from one stiff face to another, he ventured a guess.  "Nightmares?"

       Frodo scowled at him and Merry knew that he had guessed correctly.  "Frodo," he said softly, "we're your friends.  Talk to us."

       His cousin averted his gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on his coverlet very interesting.  "There's no need, Merry, really.  They're just bad dreams.  No doubt they'll stop soon, when I have something to occupy my mind.  I can go to the Library the day after tomorrow, then?"

       Frodo turned the conversation skillfully but Merry knew his older cousin too well to be fooled.  But pressing Frodo would do no good, it would only awaken that Baggins stubbornness.  Meeting Pippin's miserable eyes, Merry shook his head.

* * * * *

       This time Sam escorted his master around the small enclosure to an audience of the other hobbits.  Frodo insisted on walking by himself, without the support of Sam's sturdy arm - which meant that Sam watched his every step, ready to catch him at the slightest wavering, much to Frodo's annoyance.  Sam's hovering greatly amused Frodo's three cousins, and also the wizard and Elf-lord who had again gathered on the high balcony to chart their patient's progress.

       "Are you sure it isn't too early for this ill-advised "walk" of Frodo's, Elrond?"  Gandalf leaned over the railing, his sharp eyes on the small pair below.  

       "He grows in strength every day, Gandalf.  Very soon we must begin preparing him for the journey you will undertake.  There are things these little ones must know; the route, survival in the Wild, concealment and stealth.  The Ringbearer should learn to defend himself, to use a bow if possible, to paddle a canoe and to be ready, as much as we can prepare him, for what dangers we can foresee.  He must grow to know the other members of the Fellowship that will accompany him … learn their characters, their strengths and weaknesses and learn to trust them.  And," the Elf-lord added with a twinkle in those ageless dark eyes, "if young Meriadoc does not see his Wager through very soon, he will surely burst."

        Gandalf snorted and leaned back from the railing.  "A lesson in patience would do that young hobbit good," he muttered and Elrond laughed.

       "He had one this afternoon, Gandalf," the Lord replied to Gandalf's raised eyebrows.  But he refused to elaborate further and the wizard's curiosity went unsatisfied.

       A shout from below drew their attention back to the courtyard.  Frodo had stumbled and was on his hands and knees.  Elrond moved forward, his glance suddenly keen.  Merry cried out again as he reached his cousin and assisted Sam in raising Frodo to his feet, holding him between them until he was steady.

        Elrond's hands relaxed on the railing, their white-knuckled grip easing.  "So much depends on the strength of that little one," he said softly.  "All the world, and every life within it."

* TBC *


	15. Time Marches On And Hobbits With It

(Author's Note:  QTPie-2488, as promised, it begins…  Lily Baggins, ditto – Merry is starting to pay for his mischief.  Carol, thank you; being true to the Master's intent, even in basically a comedy piece, is so important to me.  Baylor, it is such a pleasure to read the thoughts of that analytical mind of yours.  Zorra, your comment about Merry demanding Frodo talk to him while hiding The Wager from him was most observant.  Shirebound, a few months ago you made the comment that stories 'take on a life of their own' - wow, were you ever right.  TrueFan, I'm glad you're enjoying this.  I live in terror of your fluffy pink poodles.  Chibi neko, thanks for letting me know that the dialogue at the end of Chpt. 13 achieved the dynamics I was trying for.  Thank you, everyone, for your continued reviews and interest in this piece, and Merry Christmas to All!.)

Chapter 15:  Time Marches On (And Hobbits With It) 

      Frodo prepared for dinner that evening with meticulous care.  Returning from his bath, he found a new suit of beautiful brushed velvet laid on his bed.  The chocolate brown with maroon undertones had been carefully chosen to bring out the astonishing morning glory blue of his eyes.  He tried it on and it fitted perfectly.  Turning this way and that before the tilting mirror, he admired the cut then laughed aloud in sheer delight.

      Sam paused in the doorway, his master's cloak over his arm, his heart swelling at a sound he'd feared he'd not hear again.   Resplendent in his own new suit of dove gray, the hobbit leaned against the doorjam and echoed Frodo's laugh, glad beyond measure to see his master on his feet and on his way to recovery.

       Frodo turned to Sam then came forward and caught his friend's hands in his.  "Sam," he said softly, "I want to thank you -"

       He got no farther.  Sam covered his hands with his own larger ones and squeezed them gently, as Frodo was not strong yet.  "Sir –" he started, then blushed at his interruption.  "There ain't no need to thank me, sir … an' I'd rather you didn't try."

      Frodo nodded, newly-earned wisdom in his eyes.  "Then I'll not.  But I won't forget it, Sam."

     Sam grinned at him, the joy in his heart mirrored in his beaming face.  "We'd best meet Mr. Merry an' Master Pippin, sir.  It's almost time."

* * * * *

      Frodo hesitated at the great doors to Elrond's dining room, remembering and dreading how the Elves had bowed to him his previous entrance.  But word of his discomfort at their honor had preceded him.  This time when the Ringbearer entered, there was no bowing.  But as he passed, conversations fell silent and every head turned towards him.  Though they did not bow, every Elf and guest was silent, heads nodding in greeting until the Ringbearer was past.  Frodo walked slowly, his cheeks burning but his back was very straight.

       The Master of Rivendell rose as Frodo approached his High Table and motioned the hobbit to the place at his right side.  Frodo bowed deeply as Sam was led to another table with Merry and Pippin.  His eyes followed them longingly but he was doomed to be honored by his host.  Elrond's ageless eyes crinkled in amusement but nothing but immortal serenity showed on his high-browed face.

        Frodo remembered little of that enthralling evening; he actually remembered more of his first, unauthorized foray into the Hall of Fire.   There was music and singing and fine wine (Frodo darted a quick glance at his host and limited himself to two glasses only) and food that nourished the spirit as well as body.  There were a great number of mushroom dishes.  The hobbit tried to apply himself to the food, eating more than he actually wanted, so that Elrond would see how much how better he was.

        Frodo's memories of the Hall of Fire were more clear.  Bilbo joined them and the hobbits sank into the deep cushions set out for them.  Music, songs and tales – Frodo's heart was complete.  He relaxed into the comfortable padding … relaxed for the first time since taking the first step out of his house at Crickhollow.  The stately festivities lasted long into the night.  When they discussed it afterwards, the hobbits could name but few of the songs sung or tales told … they seemed to blend together into a soft-edged mosaic of wonder and quiet joy.

      Pippin fell asleep sometime after the third hour and Aragorn came forward and bore him gently to bed; yawning, Merry followed.  Bilbo too took his leave after some indeterminable time, rising stiffly and kissing Frodo's brow before retiring.  Sam snored gently where he had slid down half onto the floor but Frodo stayed awake as long as he could, morning glory eyes half-lidded as he swayed gently with the music until sleep at last claimed him.

* * * * *

      The next day dawned cold and rainy, and the hobbits stayed inside and rested.  Frodo curled in a chair near the fire and read.  Sam and Pippin dueled over a chessboard, but neither could give the battle their full attention.  Much to Frodo's irritation, Merry kept hopping up and down every five minutes or so to look at the clouds and mumble under his breath.  The other two watched him worriedly, shooting surreptitious glances between the two elder cousins.

      The Master of Rivendell paid them a visit after luncheon and to the hobbit's further irritation, insisted on examining Frodo.  The cold weather had caused his wound to ache and he held the shoulder stiffly.  Elrond stared into his eyes, checked his throat and reflexes, had him breathe deeply and listened to his chest, then carefully inspected the injury, placing his long slender hands on the wound and closing his eyes as he felt along the thin, still-livid tissue.   Frodo tensed but to his surprise, did not suffer the crippling pain he expected at having the wound probed.  Under the Elf-lord's careful hands, the ache slowly subsided and Frodo sighed in relief.  Elrond awarded him a half-bow before departing, smiling at him enigmatically.

       Merry ate so little at supper that Frodo asked him if he were ill.  And indeed, Merry did look ill – strained and jumpy, quite unlike his usual equitable self.  When Pippin hesitantly tapped his shoulder to claim his attention from the darkening gray-laden clouds, Merry shot straight up with a yelp, startling his cousin, who stumbled back and landed hard on his posterior with a yowl.  His cry surprised Frodo, causing him to surge up from his seat and send his tray flying, scattering its contents across the room.

       That was enough.  Seeing that they were trying his master's patience, Sam chased them both out of the room and escorted them to the door.

       "If you're not going 'ta tell him, I don't want to see you two til it's time," he growled at them.  "I can't stop you from doin' this, but I can stop you from upsettin' him any more than necessary!"  Sam did not close the door in their faces – he slammed it so hard it bounced on its hinges.

* * * * *

        Merry and Pippin called for Frodo one hour after midday, as agreed.  Frodo was waiting for them eagerly, his mind already on the maps and books and scrolls his hands could scarcely wait to hold.  The weather was still rather overcast but the rain had ceased the previous evening.  Merry had walked along the garden path earlier and found it rather muddy but negotiable.

        "There certainly are a lot of people out today," observed Frodo, puzzled eyes staring at the small groupings of Elves that lined their path.   Also present were a few stragglers from the various diplomatic delegations of Men and Dwarves that had attended Elrond's Council.  It seemed to the hobbit that most of Rivendell had turned itself out and had inexplicably chosen to sit, stand, lean and simply loiter along his path.  Frodo smiled shyly at Legolas the Wood-Elf, and the Man, Boromir, and the Dwarf, Gimli, that had gathered among the crowd.  Legolas smiled at him, his clear eyes sparkling in his fair face.  The Lady Arwen reclined on one of the carven benches, her arm twined in Aragorn's.  On another sat Glorfindel, deep in converse with Bilbo.

       "Don't these people have anything else to do?" wondered Frodo. 

       "It must be the rain-washed air," suggested Pippin, practically dancing around his cousin.  Sam glowered at him.

        "Everyone likes to get out after a good rain," Merry agreed.  Sam glowered at him, too.

       "Good afternoon, little masters," Elrond greeted them.  Sam started to transfer his glower to the Elf-lord, then remembered himself and covered his mouth with both hands, shocked at his impertinence.  Frodo looked at him blankly then turned back to Elrond. 

       "Good afternoon, my lord," returned the hobbit.

       "How do you feel today, Master Frodo?" though his question was gentle, the healer's eyes were sharp as his gaze traveled over the hobbit, noting his heightened color and shining eyes.

       "Very well, my lord, thank you.  We are going to the Library."

       "So I have heard."  Elrond's reply was noncommittal, but something in his voice made Frodo look at him closely.  "Enjoy your walk, Master Frodo.  I am pleased to see you strong enough to make it at last."

       Frodo bowed in response to the Elf-lord's nod, obviously confused.  Elrond's departure seemed to be some kind of signal, for the gathered ranks of people began buzzing among themselves, whispering and exchanging many small pieces of paper.  The hobbit's morning glory gaze swept along the people, all of whom seemed to suddenly find the ground, the sky, the fountains most interesting, anything other than meeting the halfling's gaze.  Only one pair of eyes met his.  Gandalf leaned on his staff, deep eyes gleaming.Seeing the hobbit's expression, the wizard could hold a serious mien no longer and threw back his head and laughed, his enormous, great-brimmed hat almost falling off.

       Still staring at the wizard, Frodo's dark brows quirked.  His gaze traveled over the assemblage and returned to his cousins.  Merry had dropped back during his conversation with the Elf-lord and was trying to be invisible behind Sam and Pippin.  Sam pointedly stepped out from in front of him.  Casting Merry an apologetic look, Pippin also edged to the side.

       "Merry?"

       Merry said nothing, that deer-in-the-crosshairs look again on his sweating features.

       "Merry.  May I speak to you a moment?"

       Frodo started towards him but Merry rushed forward and grasped his cousin's arm, the beads of perspiration on his forehead betraying the easy smile on his lips.  "Of course, Cousin!  Why don't we talk on the way to the Library?"  Tugging gently, he pulled Frodo into step beside him again.

      Frodo twisted around and looked behind him when he realized that all the people he had passed were following.  He stopped and they stopped, resuming their intense studies of every surrounding feature except his small party.  Suddenly jerking out of Merry's hold, he took five quick steps forward.  The following crowd surged after him then ran into each other most ungracefully when he spun around to face them.  Seeing the lordly Elves in such disarray was an astonishing sight and the hobbit gaped at them, dignity forgotten in his amazement.

      "Merry, what is going on here?"

      "Frodo, I can explain -"

      _"Merry!"_

      A lifetime of respecting his elders warred with Merry's well-developed sense of self-preservation.  Vaguely he was aware that Pippin was looking at him with pity and Sam was regarding him with satisfaction.  "Cousin, it's not what it looks like…"

      "What does it look like?"

      Having no reply to that, Merry stared at his elder cousin miserably and sought desperately for a justification.  "Frodo -"

       "Answer me, young hobbit!"

       Groaning, Merry bowed his curly head and confessed.  The gathered crowd strained shamelessly to eavesdrop, but could only catch isolated words and phrases from the two.

       "You did _what_?"

       "…didn't mean any harm…"

       "…he _wagered_ on me?!"

       "Just a little…"

      "And you agreed _what_?"

      "…totally innocent tiny bet…"

     _"What?"_

        Unable to stand still, Frodo had been slowly towing his cousin along the garden path, Merry hanging back with every step.  Pippin and Sam trailed after them, eyes on the ground, avoiding looking at each other.  Their audience followed.  The entire parade eventually marched to a halt at the steps of the Library, the first half of the Ringbearer's walk completed quite without a single person noticing.

         The final words that passed between the cousins were too soft-voiced for any others to hear.  Several moments passed while the two curly heads, one dark and one bright, pressed close together.  Then in a movement shockingly quick for one so gravely injured a bare fortnight earlier, the Ringbearer whirled and was up the steps and into the Library, the great doors slamming shut behind him.

         Merry pressed himself against the doors.  "Frodo, please come out of the Library."

         "No," a soft voice replied, breathing heavily.

  
         "Frodo, _please_ -"

         "No."

        "Frodo, you've got to come out -"

         "Go away, Merry."

         Merry closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the closed doors, his head throbbing.  A stifled cough from behind him reminded him of the rows of silently watching eyes.  Slowly he turned and faced the gathered throng of Elves and Men and Dwarves, one wizard and three hobbits.  He grinned at them sickly, perspiration dripping from his blond curls into his eyes.  Then one of the doors opened slightly and a small hand reached out and caught his shoulder, dragging the surprised hobbit inside.

* TBC *   


	16. The Wrath of the Ringbearer

(Author's Note:   Zorra, I hope you don't mind me borrowing your comment about hoping that Frodo wasn't strong enough to kill his cousins when he found out about The Wager.  Tiggivon, thank you for your consistent reviews and for telling me how much you are enjoying this fic.  TrueFan, you asked for an update ASAP and I tried.  Merry Christmas!  Baylor, again I owe you thanks for being such a faithful and intelligent reviewer.  A Elbereth, I'm so glad you liked the crowd following poor Frodo.  Helga – 'morning glory' means muffins to you?  How delightful!  Where are you from, if I may ask?  Girlofring, my thanks!  Shirebound, I'd love to see a book some day … _The_ _Collected Short Stories of LotRs_, first published on ff.net … I've read so many that deserve publication.  Nilmandra, I agree, it's time for more torture of innocent hobbits.  They should start preparing for the Quest they must undertake.  I don't know if time and my houseguests will permit another update before Christmas, but I wish you all the Best of the Holidays.)

Chapter 16:  The Wrath of the Ringbearer

       Sam and Pippin stared at each other then stared at the place where Merry had disappeared.  Behind them, the absolute silence was slowing giving way to mutters and stifled coughs, which gradually grew in volume until everyone seemed to be talking at the top of his or her lungs.  The noise swelled and battered against the closed doors of the Library, which stayed resolutely shut.

      Pippin nudged Sam worriedly.  "Do you think Frodo's strong enough to kill Merry?"  Pippin's green-gold eyes rounded at the thought.  "Not that he doesn't deserve it, of course," he added hurriedly when Sam glowered at him, "but Frodo wouldn't _really_, would he?"

       "It would serve Mr. Merry right if my master did," Sam returned, not willing to forgive and forget.  "And you, too, Mr. Pippin, though it isn't me place 'ta say so.  You knew it was wrong, bettin' on your cousin like that."  Pippin hung his head, his expression miserable.  "But you went right ahead an' followed Mr. Merry."

       If the tweenager had been just a few years younger, he would have scuffled a toe in the muddy earth.  "I know," he whispered.  "But -"

       Sam wasn't ready to let up yet.  "There might be a day when you can't follow him, Master Pippin.  Have you thought about that?  You've got to learn 'ta lead your own life…"

       Despite his resolve to give the youngest hobbit a good tongue-lashing, the expression on Pippin's sorrowful face smote Sam's generous heart.  Tears were gathering in Pippin's eyes and Sam could not bear it.  He could not continue.

      "Little masters?"  Elrond stood before them, the gray weather seeming to have no effect on his long voluminous robes, while the hobbits were liberally splattered with mud.  When the Elf-lord was certain he had their attention, he gestured gracefully towards the shut doors. "What occurs?"

      Now the two hobbits became aware of rising voices, muffled by the thick wood of the great doors.  Others had noticed too and were edging closer to the three at the bottom step.  Bilbo had threaded his way to the fore and awarded them a look of disgust.  "Listening on the bottom step!" he scolded them.  "Shame on you!  You can't hear anything down here.  We need to be listening at the door!"  With that, the old hobbit climbed stiffly up the stairs and pushed a pointed ear against the entry.

       Pippin and Sam were right behind him.  Elrond inclined his long body over their heads and pressed his ear to the door, supporting himself with his long hands splayed against the wood.  The faint shouts they could hear through the doors were being occluded by the rustlings and shufflings of the gathered crowd.  Elrond turned around and surveyed the throng with his most forbidding, dark-eyed gaze.  The crowd quieted instantly.

       "Can you hear what they're saying?" Bilbo hissed at Elrond.  The Elf-lord shook his head, and pressed his ear firmly to the wood of his Library doors.

      "There is a window around the corner.  We could -" whatever Elrond had been going to say was drowned out by a thunderous crash from within.  Instinctively they leaped back from the deafening smashing thud.

       Before they could react, Gandalf magically appeared beside them on the top step.  "What was that?" he demanded, his beard bristling as if he thought them responsible for the great noise.  Behind him, Sam could see Aragorn striding up the steps, Arwen following close behind, holding up the skirts of her gown.  "What is going on in there?"

       When the others could only look at him, he rushed past them and struck the great door with his staff.  "Frodo!  What happened?  _Frodo!_" 

        There was no reply.  Then the door was thrown back and Merry appeared, fear in his bright blue eyes.  "Help me!" he gasped.  "Frodo's hurt!"

        The small gathering surged through the door.  Merry ran before them, leading them around the corner to one of the reading rooms.  A scroll-case had collapsed, scattering scrolls and pamphlets everywhere.  Partially buried beneath the shattered wood and paper, the Ringbearer lay unmoving, blood pooling beneath him on the polished wooden floor.

* * * * *

      "What happened, Merry?"  Now that Frodo had been carried to his room and the anxious crowd dispersed, Aragorn could spare the time to find out what had happened while Elrond examined the injured Ringbearer.

       Some of the stark whiteness had left the hobbit's face, but Merry was still very pale and his whole small body trembled.  Sam had been ordered out with the others, but he would not leave his master's side, even refusing Elrond's direct order.  Pippin sat on the small divan on one side of Merry and stroked his hand, and Bilbo sat on the other, rubbing his back.  Aragorn spared a moment to marvel at the others' instinctive comfort, the easy affection they shared among themselves.  He knelt by Merry's side to lesson the height difference, knowing the halflings to be more comfortable when Men did not tower over them so.

        "Merry?" 

        Slowly the hobbit raised his curly head, only gradually becoming aware of the Ranger.  Blank eyes slowly focused as Merry struggled to reply.  Bilbo and Pippin exchanged a worried look behind his back and Pippin picked up his cousin's cold hand and held it between both of his, rubbing gently.

       "We … we were talking," Merry said softly.  Then his head dropped and a flush stained his cheeks.  "We were fighting.  Frodo was furious.  I've … I've never seen him so angry."  Merry paused, his eyes swimming with tears.  "I told him we didn't mean any harm, but he called me … called me irresponsible and foolish, and said I deserved a good whipping."  A tear broke free of the others and escaped down his cheek.

       "And then?" Aragorn encouraged quietly. 

       "I said it was just a game, that people were just having fun with The Wager.  He asked how I thought I was going to arrange to meet all the terms … you know, getting Lord Elrond to agree to not sending you on that scouting trip and so forth."  Merry sniffed and Bilbo silently fished out a handkerchief and handed it to him.   "When I told him not to worry, that I'd take care of it, it just made him more angry.  He said that I needed to grow up … that this isn't a game.  That everyone is counting on us now – that if this Fellowship fails … if we fail, we would lose … everything…"

       Merry couldn't continue.  His curly head dropped and he wailed into his hands, his whole body shaking with grief and guilt.  Wordlessly, Pippin and Bilbo pressed themselves against him.  Accepting strength from them, Merry raised his head again.  "He started walking around in circles, waving his arms.  I told him to calm down.  That made him _really_ mad.  He spun around and … and lost his balance, I think.  He staggered to the side and hit his shoulder – his hurt one – against the scroll case.  I guess the pain made him fall back against it, and the wooden leg broke and it collapsed on him."

       Aragorn nodded and raised a gentle hand to tousle Merry's curls.  "How is he?" the young hobbit whispered.

       "I'll ask."  The Ranger rose to his feet.  At that moment, the door opened and Elrond glided through, Arwen behind him carrying the basin used to wash the blood from Frodo's head.  The hobbits had the briefest glimpse of Frodo's hair, dark against the white pillow, and Gandalf in the chair by his bed, talking softly with Sam.

       Elrond closed the door, then carefully cracked it open a little so that he might hear instantly if the Ringbearer suffered any distress.  The three climbed off the divan to their feet, their hearts in their mouths.  Elrond's ageless eyes swept over the halflings, then he motioned Arwen past to empty the basin.  Aragorn thought the water was very red.  Meeting his foster-father's eyes, the Ranger followed her out, relieving her of the heavy basin and taking her arm.

       Elrond turned back to the young hobbits.  "Your cousin is resting," the Elf-lord said softly.  "The edge of the scroll-case caught him on the temple, right above the eye.  The weight knocked him out and will result in an appalling bump.  Scalp wounds bleed very much.  He will have a headache and probably some nausea when he wakes, and must stay in bed for a few days to rebuild the blood lost, but he should recover."

        Merry made a muffled sound caught somewhere between joy and relief.  The faces of the other two echoed it.  "May we see him?"

       Those ageless eyes bored into him.  "He is sleeping now, I think.  Gandalf and Samwise will stay with him.  You may see him in the morning."  Then that dark gaze turned to his old friend.  "Bilbo, will you excuse us?  I would like to speak with your young cousins."

        The elderly hobbit met that immortal gaze for a moment then rose, old bones creaking.  Bilbo grimaced and stroked both Merry's and Pippin's curls gently.  "Don't be too hard on them, Elrond," he said softly.  "It was just a bit of fun."

       When Bilbo had left, Elrond sank gracefully down to the divan, which put the hobbits at only slightly below his eye level.  The Elf-lord said nothing for a few moments, listening to the ticking of the seconds that comprised the short lives of these small folk.  Returning his thoughts to the matter at hand, he met their anxious eyes.

       "I am declaring The Wager null and void," he informed them without preamble.  When Merry opened his mouth, Elrond continued, "This is not subject to discussion or negotiation, Master Meriadoc.  There has been quite enough of that, I think."  The two exchanged a glance and were silent.  The Master of Rivendell nodded approvingly.  "And yet the Ringbearer did complete half of The Wager.  Therefore, half of The Wager's terms will be met."

         The older of the two's eyes lit up, and Elrond hurried to squash his hopes.  "_I _will choose which half of the terms will be upheld."  Merry's eyes fell.  "You and your cousin will muck out your pony's stall for a week, and curry him."  Two nods. "You and your cousin will scrub the bases of all of my fountains in my gardens."  Two deep sighs then two nods.  "Master Meriadoc, you will copy my daughter's songs for Bilbo, as he wishes.  And as Gandalf wishes, you two will refrain from further endeavors of this type while guests in my home."

       Elrond surveyed the two bowed heads.  "Lastly," (and the two curly heads raised and regarded him apprehensively),  "as I know you truly meant no ill, when all of these tasks are finished, Master Meriadoc, then you may copy such maps as you wish from my Library.  The cartographer will supply you tanned hide and whatever else you need."

       "Thank you," whispered Merry.

       Though the Elf-lord did not smile, the weight of that ageless gaze lifted slightly.  "And you and Master Peregrin and Master Samwise may have Second Breakfast whenever you wish, as much as you wish, for as long as you like."

       The two hobbits bowed.  The Elf-lord regarded them for a moment, then returned them a half-bow and swept from the room.  Merry and Pippin sagged back onto the divan and leaned back, kicking their short legs against the cushioning.

       "Well," Pippin murmured.  "It could have been worse."

       "Yes, I suppose," Merry replied slowly.  They were both silent.  Then Merry continued, "I wanted to show Frodo the maps.  You know how he is about maps…"  Suddenly Merry made a choking sound and to Pippin's horror, the tears were finally unleashed.  Merry leaned against his smaller cousin and sobbed and sobbed.  Pippin flung his short arms around his kin and held him tightly, planting small kisses in his hair and murmuring reassurances. 

       "He's going to be all right, Merry," Pippin assured his older cousin.  "He's not hurt bad.  It was just an accident, Cousin.  He's all right."

       At last Merry wore himself out, sagging almost bonelessly against Pippin.  The older cousin scrubbed his eyes and used the last dry corner of Bilbo's sodden handkerchief to clean his face.  Pippin pulled himself to his feet then tugged Merry after him.  "Come on, Merry," he said softly.  "Let's go find something to eat."

       In the adjoining room, Gandalf looked to Samwise, who had gone to sleep with his chair tilted back against the wall, arms folded across his chest.  The wizard rose and laid a spare blanket over the hobbit, then moved to the door to watch the two small forms depart, arm in arm, for the kitchens.  'Ah,' thought the wizard, 'Perhaps they have both grown up this day, a little.'  

* TBC *   


	17. Tasks and Preparations

(Author's Note:  Chibi neko, I enjoyed reading your review and thank you for taking the time to tell me what you liked.  Coriandra – welcome back.  Lily Baggins, this is just a little setback for our poor Frodo.  ????, I also think that's how Frodo would react.  Rose Cotton, help and comfort is coming but not quite yet.  Baylor, thank you again for noting the details in the crafting of the story.  Katakanadian, I am honored and I envy the hobbits their closeness, too.  Crazytook – thank you!  Elwen, as you are one of the best writers on ff.net, I am so pleased that you like the story.  Letanica, I want more too – canon is far too incomplete.  Ariel, "morning glory" was chosen after _much_ too much time spent contemplating movie-Frodo's eyes and if it does identify a story as mine, I can only be pleased by that.  A Elbereth, either I am becoming predictable or you are ghost-writing me!  Pansy Chubb, I hadn't picked up on the similarity but are you ever right.  Tiggivon, I am so glad.  Your comment that the scene "went beyond" what you had hoped really means a lot to me.  This A/N is long but the above-mentioned comments were so intelligent and thoughtful, that I wanted to acknowledge them.  I can't thank you _all_ enough for reading this story and for posting your reviews of it.)

Chapter 17:  Tasks and Preparations

        Frodo slept deeply, his white-bandaged head scarcely distinguishable from the white pillow, only a dark curl escaping here and there to mark the division.  The eye beneath the deep cut was swelling shut and would soon be an amazing kaleidoscope of black and blue.  The Ringbearer looked like he had been very expertly punched, Gandalf mused, gently smoothing back the dark hair from the pale face.

        The wizard had stayed with Frodo until very late, long after an embarrassed Sam had awoken from his own unplanned nap.  After exchanging a final few words with Samwise, the wizard left to attend dinner and the Hall of Fire, promising to arrange for trays to be sent to Sam and Frodo, if Sam could coax his master to eat.  Sam stayed at his post and turned away the constant stream of visitors that came to ask after his master with soft voices and worried faces.  The three Big Folk of the Company came also, Boromir and Legolas and Gimli, and Sam regretfully turned them away.  He felt awkward about refusing members of the Fellowship, but Elrond's orders that Frodo not be taxed were very clear and Sam was not about to disobey them.

       That held for Merry and Pippin too, when they showed up with their arms laden with fruit and pies purloined from the kitchens.  Ever practical, Sam accepted the food but turned his master's cousins away.  He shut the door on their sad faces and hoped they would spend the rest of the evening thinking about their actions.

* * * * *

       Pippin threw down the scrub brush and sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders to ease the strain along his aching back.  Merry looked over at him from the base of another fountain and grimaced in sympathy, rocking back on his knees to ruefully examine his water-shriveled, reddened hands.  The two hobbits had been working since first light, determined to redeem themselves in the Master of Rivendell's eyes. 

       _Before_ first light, they had reported to the kitchens to assist the cooks, and had managed to enjoy themselves mightily despite the hard work.  Rare indeed was the hobbit that did not like to cook and in this Meriadoc and Peregrin were no exception.  Both hung eagerly over the cooks' shoulders (or more accurately, under their arms) to watch the mixing of the breads and muffins and sweet, frosted sticky buns that they so loved.

       The two were set to arranging trays and if they sampled whatever they put on the trays, they did replace the food.  Merry marshaled his good will and resisted the urge to pepper Sam's sausages in repayment for having the door closed on him the previous night.  When he came to their cousin's tray, Merry chose the mushroom-laden dishes carefully.  Pippin dashed outside and returned a moment later, sprigs of bluebells in his hands.  These he had gathered growing wild near the herb garden and laid them alongside the cutlery of Frodo's tray.

      And now it was almost time for luncheon, and the two hobbits were exhausted.  Sweat dripped freely into their eyes and stung abominably and their curls hung in limp bedraggled strands.  But they had scrubbed the moss from six fountains (and the base of one bench) and were feeling tired but virtuous.

       In unspoken agreement, the two decided on a rest.  Merry flopped on his back and threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the glare of the weak autumn sun.  Pippin dragged himself over and collapsed on his cousin's chest, ignoring the faint, protesting "oof!" 

       "I hurt everywhere," Pippin moaned, "and my stomach's about to crawl up my backbone."

       "It shouldn't be long 'til the chimes ring for luncheon," Merry replied, rubbing his side where one particularly sharp elbow had dug in.  He raised himself up slightly and surveyed the sweating, grimy figure resting on him.  "Pip, you're filthy.  There's moss in your hair.  How did you get moss in your _hair_?"

       "You're filthy, too," his cousin retorted.  "I must have brushed my head against the stone when I was scrubbing."  The youngster sighed deeply and rubbed at his arms, wincing as muscles in his forearms jumped painfully from the unaccustomed work.  "Merry, I'm hungry."

        "C'mon, then," Merry rolled over, disregarding Pippin's squawk as his comfortable cushion shifted.  "We'd best get cleaned up.  They won't let us into the dining hall, looking like this." 

       Elrond watched the two drag themselves to their feet and leave for the baths.  They did not see him as he stood still and silent among the shadows of the tall trees.  The Elf-lord nodded to himself, pleased to see the mettle of these young ones.  They did not shrink their duty, despite sore hands and exhaustion.  Never did he think that they would be able to defend the Ringbearer, but he would not discount the contributions they would make to Frodo's sanity and well-being.  Many times had the Elf-lord wished to reconsider his perhaps too-hasty agreement to their inclusion in this Quest, but no longer did he so.  Frodo would need the love and support of his cousins as much as he would need the swords and bows of his protectors.

       The faintest rustle among the fallen leaves alerted the Elf-lord to the approach of another.  Estel drew even with him just in time to see the last curly head depart around the corner.  They stood for a moment in companionable silence, each occupied with his own thoughts.  At last the Elrond acknowledged his foster-son with a slight cant of his dark, ageless eyes.

       "Is all in readiness?"

       "Almost," Aragorn replied.  "There is much that needs to be completed yet, that must be especially made because of their small size.  But their lessons can began as soon as Frodo is able."

        "Could we not start the others before?  Even a few days of additional practice might make the difference in their living or dying on this journey."

       A small smile lit the Ranger's stern features.  "I would normally agree.  But Sam will not leave his master.  And I think those two will be too stiff for much sword or bow-practice, for several days at least."

      The small smile was echoed on the Elf-lord's face.  "Good.  Those two young ones have quite enough upset my household.  I would have a few days of peace, before we must turn Imladris into a training-ground for halflings."

* * * * *    

       Merry and Pippin again tried to see their cousin after lunch.  Sam opened the door at their knock and gazed at them levelly, his grey eyes measuring.  After a moment's consideration, he allowed them in.

       The two sat in the outer room and waited while Sam asked his master if Frodo would see them.   They could not hear their cousin's reply, but when Sam returned to admit them, those grey eyes held warning.  "Don't you go upsettin' him, now," he whispered at them.  "He's had a bad morning."

       Frodo did not look at all pleased to see them.  Pippin prudently stayed behind his Merry, through their eldest cousin did not look capable of rising and throttling them.  Frodo's face was very swollen and the eye underneath the cut was now completely closed, with the bruising extending down his cheek almost to his jaw.  The shoulder-wound sported a fresh, thickly padded bandage.  Frodo leaned back against the pillow and folded his arms, glaring at them out of his one good eye.

       "Well?"  Pippin received the impression that all that kept his eldest cousin from shouting was his inability to open his mouth more than a little.

       Merry eyed Frodo cautiously and edged closer.  "Frodo," he began softly, "Pippin and I -" he gulped suddenly and the suppressed tears in his voice were unexpectedly answered by Pippin's.  "We didn't … we didn't mean to hurt you."  Another gulp.  "It … it just got out of hand.  I'm sorry, Cousin."

        "I'm sorry, too, Cousin."  Pippin gathered his courage and stood away from Merry, his green-gold eyes watering. "We didn't mean any harm."

        "You never do," Frodo replied softly.  "But harm came of it, nonetheless.  Merry, you had no right to take wagers on me.  Then you didn't tell me, and somehow, I find _that_ the most difficult thing to forgive."

       Merry ducked his head, grief at Frodo's disappointment in him searing his heart.  Pippin had less restraint; the tweenager burst into tears and with a loud wail, flung himself on his eldest cousin, not noticing the grimace of pain that flashed across Frodo's face.  Frodo wound his right hand in Pippin's curls as the young hobbit sobbed against his side, looking over his head at Merry.

       "I'm sorry," Merry repeated softly.  Frodo held his eyes for a long moment, then slowly nodded.  The acceptance in those morning glory eyes lifted the weight of the world off of Merry's shoulders.  With a deep sigh, he joined Pip at Frodo's side and after a moment, felt a gentle hand brush through his hair.

       "I never could stay angry with you for very long," Frodo's soft voice mused above their heads.  "Pippin-lad, calm down.  Calm down now."

       Sam shook his head from his post from the door, thinking that the two had gotten off far too easily.  A few tears, a few apologies, and his master softened like dry earth when the spring rains come.  _He'd_ not be so forgiving –

       Samwise's attention was returned abruptly as the two hobbits rose to take their leave, fearful of further tiring their cousin.  Merry was saying, "When Sam and Pip and I started this Wager business –"

      "Sam?"

      "Yes, we –"

      _"Sam?"_

      Then again, Sam thought as the two hurriedly departed, a forgiving soul is a wonderful quality…

* * * * *

       "How goes the work?"  Aragorn ran the miniature bow through his strong hands, feeling the curve of the wood, the flexibility of the draw.  The wood felt cold under his hands, smooth and polished, a long elven-bow shortened to the size of a hobbit.

       Legolas shook his head, blond hair tied out of his eyes as he continued to sand the ash that would form a bow for one of the halflings.  Various pieces of seasoned wood, carving knives, arrow fletchings and other tools were scattered about him as he sat cross-legged on the ground.  "I have never made so small a bow, Aragorn.  These are smaller even than a child's.  I do not know if the little ones will even be able to draw them."

       "They must learn," responded the Ranger absently, drawing the bow carefully to its full width without snapping it.  "The art of archery is not much practiced among their kind, but they need to learn the bow for defense and for hunting."

       "Defense…" murmured the Wood-elf.  "Aragorn, even if they master the bow enough to not be a danger to themselves and to us, have you considered the strength of their draws?  Even at full extension, an arrow from one of these bows would not bring down an enemy, unless it was a very lucky shot at close range."

       "Then they will be used for hunting," Aragorn replied.  "I would like to see the hobbits not so dependent on the Big Folk, as they call us.  I am to teach them to live off the land, survive in the Wild, and supplying their own dinner is part of that."

       The Man dropped to his haunches beside the seated Elf.  "We must give them every advantage that we can, Legolas.  Even if we do not hold out much hope for their making use of all that we teach them."

       The Elf nodded and returned to his work, his slender hands caressing up and down the wood.  "I have more hope of them learning swordplay.  The Man Boromir has agreed to teach them, you said?"

       "Yes," Aragorn responded.  "They have quite excellent swords, which they need to learn to honor and care for.  Frodo's was destroyed at the Ford of Bruinen, of course … I must see to its replacement..."  The Ranger's eyes lost their sharp focus momentarily as he mentally added yet another item to his long list of responsibilities.  He picked up one of the small arrows that Legolas had completed and ran it through his fingers.  "What did you use for the fletching?  Goose feathers are too large … are these duck?"

       "Duck," agreed the Elf.  "I have asked the cooks to keep for me the plucked wing feathers of all chickens and small fowl they use."  Legolas' clear eyes creased briefly in mirth.  "One said he was most pleased to have more work for the halflings assigned to the kitchens in the mornings; left unoccupied, he said, they eat far more than they produce."

         Aragorn grinned as he rose to his feet, dropping the arrow back into the small pile of finished work.   "Aye.  Well, perhaps the hunting and snaring skills I will teach them will help in providing for those hobbit appetites.  Pardon me, my friend.  I must continue on my errands."   Legolas merely nodded at him, his attention again on the small bow that was being born between his long-fingered hands.

* TBC *


	18. Explanations and Expeditions

(Author's Note:  QTPie-2488 and crazytook, since you asked for it, we'll listen in on Sam's explanation to his master about The Wager.  Bookworm, this is for you, too.  You three are much too eager to see Sam "catch it hot!"  Zorra, I am sorry but it is necessary that Strider go to the treeharbors.  You'll soon see why.  Coriandra, I am glad you are enjoying the story.  A Elbereth, Frodo does seem to have a sweet and forgiving nature … until pushed too far.  Katakanadian, I wouldn't put some "evil retribution" past Frodo if those two keep trying his patience.  TrueFan, don't worry - if people keep saying they want to read about the hobbits' time in Rivendell, then I will chronicle this time.  Thank you, everyone, for your support and comments. )

Chapter 18:  Explanations and Expeditions                           

       "Sam, I would like to speak with you please."

       Sam closed the door upon his master's departing cousins and briefly rested his forehead against the cool wood.  While he hadn't dared hope that he would escape completely, Samwise had felt no pressing urge to confess his part in The Wager.  He certainly wasn't going to volunteer the information that his innocent comment had started the whole mess.

        Sam turned around and smiled cheerfully at his master.  "Aye, sir?"

        Those morning glory eyes were burning into him from his master's pale face.  Frodo lay back at his ease among the pillows but his arms were folded and his face set.  "Sam, what did Merry mean?"

       "When, sir?"  If he couldn't avoid the inevitable, maybe he could delay it until they were interrupted … or the world ended…

        "Just now, Sam.  Just before my cousins felt the need to leave so quickly. What was Merry talking about?"

        "'Bout what, sir?"

        "Sam, I am asking _you_ that."

        "Oh."  Where were all those people who kept coming to the door to ask after Mr. Frodo?  Why didn't one of them turn up now?

         "Sam!"

         He knew that tone, for all that Samwise very rarely heard it from his gentle and patient master.  Grey eyes closed then opened slowly.  There was no help for it.  "It's like this, Mr. Frodo …  well, Mr. Merry an' Mr. Pippin were saying – ah," Sam knew his master wouldn't like Sam's pessimistic impression of his returning strength, "ah…"

       "Sam…"

       Definite warning in that single word.  "Ah, _anyway_,"  Sam hurried on, "I said… an' then Mr. Merry said – ah…"  Never good with words, the poor hobbit could find no explanation to express how things had simply gotten out of hand, and one thing had piled up on another, and he'd never meant them to, and he'd _tried_ to extricate himself from the muddle…

        The loud knock on the door caused them both to jump and broke the staring contest.  Frodo's dark brows drew down but Sam was already moving.

        "Gandalf, sir!  Come right in, sir!  So happy 'ta see you, sir!  Is there anything I can get you, sir?!"  The startled wizard was practically dragged into the Ringbearer's room, Sam all but tugging on his robes to hurry him along.  Once in, Gandalf's deep eyes moved from his friend's determined expression to the florid face of his servant and smiled internally.  'Ah, poor Sam is 'catching it hot,' to use his own phrase,' thought the wizard.

        Struggling to contain his amusement, Gandalf seated himself in the chair Sam pulled up next to the bed and leaned his staff against Frodo's headboard.  Frodo looked between the wizard and Sam, torn between demanding his explanation and greeting his guest.  Good manners and a gentlehobbit's upbringing won out.  Frodo turned to Gandalf and seconded Sam's offer of refreshment, his pale face blossoming into a smile as he relaxed.  As he hurried to arrange the tea and add some small sweetcakes to a tray, Sam took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and send up his thanks to Elbereth for the rescue.

* * * * *

        Much of that first day of making reparations was a blur to Merry and Pippin.  Their backs ached and their legs ached and their arms ached worse.  Merry had taken a small burn on his arm that morning from when he brushed up against a hot griddle in the kitchens and it stung abominably.  Their hands cramped from gripping the scrub brushes and the skin on their fingers and hands wrinkled up from the lye in the strong soap they used in scrubbing the fountains.  The two had taken a quick bath then eaten ravenously at luncheon, finishing quickly so that they might spend some time with Frodo.  That visit had been cut short by Merry's offhand remark about Sam's participation in The Wager.  Knowing when to retreat, they had abandoned Sam and fled.

        Vowing to make it up to Sam (somehow), Merry and Pippin changed their clothes (again) and reported for kitchen-duty.

        The two small figures were becoming quite familiar to the kitchen staff and more than one tall Elf smiled to see the small curly heads bent so industriously to the tasks assigned them.  The afternoon had passed into early evening when Aragorn sought them out.   The two were helping knead bread and were liberally covered with flour, the fine white dust hanging in the warm fusty air.  Both had aprons tied up under their arms, which hung to the tops of their hairy feet.  The cross-cultural education had been mutual, Aragorn saw, as he surveyed the racks of raising breadstuffs.   Sprinkled among the racks of elegantly shaped rolls and braided breads were several small dough figurines that had been sculpted into fat-bellied bears and turtles and even a small rabbit that sat upright and had tiny thin breadsticks for whiskers.

       Pippin looked up at him, his whole small face grinning in delight through his obvious tiredness.  Somehow the youngster had managed to immerse himself more deeply in the dough preparation than his cousin.  While Meriadoc had tried to keep himself neat, Pippin hadn't bothered.  His bronze curls were thickly powdered with white and smudges of flour covered his face, arms and almost every inch of skin.

       With the head cook's nod of permission, the Ranger escorted the two outside and stood upwind while they tried to dust themselves off.  When as much flour and sugar had been removed as was possible without yet another bath, Aragorn motioned them towards a bench.

       "In two days, I must leave for the northern treeharbors with Elladan and Ellrohir," he began.  Merry winced, remembering that his plan to give Aragorn and Arwen a day together had failed spectacularly.    The Ranger noted the grimace.  He did not hold it against the halfling; he had held out little hope that he would be excused from this duty.  The Ranger's superb skills would be needed to seek for any sign of the Enemy and Aragorn knew without false pride that he was the finest tracker in Imladris.  A mission of this importance could not be entrusted to one of lesser skill.  Yet important as it was, it could serve a second purpose.  "Would you like to come?"

       For a moment, the two young hobbits did not think they had heard him correctly.  Then their faces lit up like one of Gandalf's firecrackers and he was nearly bowled off the bench by their exuberant hugs.  "Would we?  _Would_ we!"

       Laughing, the Ranger instructed the two to be ready at first light, two days hence.  They would ride one of the great elven horses.  Seeing their looks of apprehension, Aragorn assured them that the stablemaster had recommended an older mare, smaller than most, who would bear them carefully.

      "Couldn't we ride Bill, instead?" asked Pippin, plainly not reassured of the mare's gentleness.

       Aragorn shook his head.  "I am sorry, Pippin, but Bill could not possibly keep up with us.  He is a fine pack-pony but we will be traveling swiftly.  Do not worry; the mare is very sweet-natured.  She will not allow you to come to harm."

      Pippin nodded.  Beside him, he thought that Merry also looked somewhat nervous, which eased his own fears.   Merry also had a concern.  "And this is acceptable to Lord Elrond?"

       The Ranger smiled.  "My foster-father has given his permission."  He did not add that upon being asked, Elrond had heaved a most uncharacteristic sigh of relief and said, "Yes, _please_ take them."   Evidently young Peregrin had earlier that day created an amazingly life-like dough sculpture of a certain body part … which had, through a quite innocent mistake, been included on a covered tray for one of the high-born ladies of the human delegation.  The resulting furor had sorely tried the Elf-lord's patience.

       When the mistake had been traced back to the frantic tweenager (who with the assistance of his cousin had been hunting desperately through the baking racks for his sculpture), Pippin had been unceremoniously hauled before the lady to apologize.  This the young hobbit did with such grace and obvious contrition that the lady (an elderly and rather staid matron) had forgiven him and Elrond was able to smooth over the incident.  Imladris, he had reflected to Aragorn, could use a few days of respite from those two.

        "This will not be a hobbit camping-party," Aragorn warned them.  "We seek sign of the Enemy.  Rumors have reached us of companies of orcs gathering and passing through the area in great numbers.  We will be riding hard and swift, which you are not accustomed to.  And," he continued upon seeing the slight frown on Meriadoc's features which meant the young hobbit was thinking, "you two will be expected to carry your own weight.  You will attend to the fires and do the cooking as well as the clean-up.  _And_ you will continue your reparations for my lord Elrond upon our return."

       Two curly heads nodded eagerly, and with a few more instructions and admonitions from the Ranger, set off to the bathhouses to clean themselves up for dinner.  Aragorn's sharp eyes followed them and he mentally listed the lessons he wished these young ones to learn on this little expedition.  Rising, he brushed his hands along the dark green suede of his embroidered surcoat and discovered that one of them had filled his pockets with sticky unbaked dough.

* * * * *

       "Frodo, I want you to tell me about your nightmares."

       The Ringbearer's smile faded as the wizard's words sank in.  The tea had been finished and only crumbs remained of the sweetcakes.  Gandalf had eaten only one of the cakes, urging the others on Frodo without the hobbit being aware of it.   The wizard had waited until his friend was relaxed and slightly sleepy, then made his gentle demand.

       Frodo tried to laugh off the wizard's request.  "Really, Gandalf, they're just nightmares.  Just dreams…"

       Gandalf leaned forward and captured one of the hobbit's small hands in his.  "Frodo," was all he said.

       The hobbit's eyes suddenly shimmered with tears and he tried to pull away.  "I don't want to talk about them," he whispered softly.

       "I understand that it pains you, my friend.  Would you rather speak with Bilbo?"  The hobbit shook his dark head quickly, eyes downcast.  "Frodo … you have confided in me in the past.  You know I will respect and guard your confidences."

      "I know, Gandalf.  I know.  But these dreams … they're different."

      "How are they different?"

      Sam had been about to clear away the teacups and dishes, but upon hearing this turn of conversation he halted and busied himself in quietly refilling the water pitcher.  His Gaffer always said that the mark of a good servant was 'seein' things got done without being neither seen nor heard,' and Sam's long years of familiarity with his master had taught him how to move around Frodo without Frodo really being aware of him.  Gandalf's deep eyes drifted to him and the wizard made an almost unnoticeable motion for him to stay.  Sam nodded slightly in return, knowing that his master would need his silent, unconscious support.

        Frodo rubbed his nightshirt sleeve across his eyes, avoiding the painful bruising, still staring at nothing.   "They change," he murmured softly, his voice detached and remote.  Sam knew that his master was trying to distance himself from the pain; he'd seen Frodo do it before.  Gandalf had too, he knew, and saw the wizard lean forward and capture Frodo's free hand, so that both were sheltered in his larger grip.

       "How?" Gandalf persisted gently.

       Frodo closed his beautiful eyes.  "Sometimes it is dark.  Not night, I think … just dark.  They're coming for me.  They can see me, now.  They are so tall … huge.  Their black robes reach up into the sky.  I can't move.  There is no place to run to, anyway.  No place that they cannot find me."  Silence.  Gandalf said nothing, only continued to rub the small hands, which had gone so cold.

      With an effort, Frodo continued.  "I feel the Morgul-knife enter my shoulder … feel the tip break off.  That's silly, of course – I didn't feel it snap inside of me.  But in the dream, I feel that the tip take on a life … an intelligence … of its own, and feel it seek my heart."  The shadowed eyes raised and Sam was hard-pressed not to make a sound at the terror and pain he saw in them.  "I know it's gone now … that Elrond cut it out.  But I swear I think it is still there, inching its way slowly through my body.

       "That's not the worst of it, though."  Gandalf made a soft, non-committal sound, sharp eyes on Frodo's averted face.  "Sometimes I feel like it is … listening.  Seeking.  Looking for me."

       Gandalf released Frodo's hands to reach up and gently stroke the pale face.  Perspiration had broken out on his brow and Sam silently handed his master a cloth he had wet in the pitcher.  Frodo's "Thank you, Sam," was automatic and entirely unaware of the words as he wiped his face with it.

       "You know what it is you feel listening, don't you?" asked the wizard.

       "Yes," Frodo replied softly.  "It's the Ring."

* TBC *  


	19. Conversations in the Gathering Dark

(Author's Note:   For those of you who will ask, yes, the Rivendell bathhouse is loosely based on a Roman thermae, complete with heated floors.  Think how much better those waterfalls would serve than stone aqueducts.  Rose Cotton, your request is fulfilled at last.  Thanks for waiting.  Stardust Flare, I'm glad you are enjoying the story.  QTPie-2488, I have no doubt Sam hopes his master _never_ finds out.  Nilmandra, I am afraid to contemplate the answer to that question.  Firiel, I will try … everyone is just trying to survive the Holidays (and houseguests), now.  Helga, what a snapping good idea.  Only eight were accounted for, you know.  TrueFan, go ahead and lecture Pip, the poor kid feels that everyone else does.  Chibi Neko, having had lots of experience with teenage boys, I assure you that Pip's little joke is entirely in character – and has a reason, later on.  A Elbereth, I am so sorry to hear you suffer from nightmares, too.  Can I send you a virtual hug?  Katakanadian, I forget which wise soul said it [shirebound, was that you?], but one ff.net writer commented that Pip has a knack for falling in manure and coming up smelling like a rose.  Our Pip is more than comic relief … he's a focus for our affection and we want to mother him and spank him and keep him warm and safe.  Like Merry, we are torn between wanting to hug him and strangle him.  Thank you, everyone, for asking the story be continued.  This chapter is rather conversational, but the action is soon to start again.)  

Chapter 19:  Conversations in the Gathering Dark

       The old wizard leaned back in his chair, face tightening as sorrow shadowed his deep eyes.  Automatically his gnarled hands sought his pipe and the hobbit watched as he filled the bowl and tamped it down, lighted it.  Frodo sniffed deeply, savoring the first tendrils of Longbottom Leaf, its sweet fragrance reminding him of the Shire and home.

        The pipe at last drawing to his satisfaction, Gandalf turned that deep gaze to the Ringbearer.  Actually, little of the hobbit's small face could be seen between the bandages and the bruising.  Frodo looked him silently, feeling no need to elaborate the truth of his words between them.  The day was failing into dusk, the golden sunlight of late afternoon surrendering to the blue-edged tones of evening.  Already it was colder and Sam moved unobtrusively to light the fire in the great hearth.

        "I believe it is, also," murmured the wizard, dropping his gaze to the cold circlet of gold strung on a silver chain around the hobbit's throat.  Frodo followed his gaze and he flushed, one hand rising automatically to cover the Ring.  The flush deepened as he realized what he was doing and forced the hand down with a visible effort of will.

       There were many questions Gandalf would have liked to ask the Ringbearer, that his research and reason and own curiosity prompted.  'What does it feel like?' was one.  'Do you actually hear it speaking?' was another.  Many questions … none of which he would ever voice, as his asking would increase the suffering of his small friend, regarding him so quietly from the great, wide bed.

        Likewise, 'Is there anything I can do?' was a useless question.  There was nothing he or Elrond or anyone could do, except what they could to ease the Ringbearer's mind and soul and heart.

        "Is there anything you can do to stop the nightmares?" Frodo asked in a hopeless voice.  Gandalf started, startled to hear his thoughts echoed in the hobbit's soft tones.

      The wizard shook his gray-maned head.  "Elrond has no potion or elixir to help, nor have I any magic or spell.  You have always had … unusual … dreams, Frodo, and have more than once turned them to your advantage."  A ghost of a smile played around the bearded lips.  "Remember when you dreamed the winners of the Spring Fair, and, as I recall, made a tidy sum on the races?"

        Frodo almost laughed and in that brief instant, the light that was within him shone forth so brightly as to startle the watching wizard.  The hobbit's face was too sore to emit a laugh, so he settled for a gasping chuckle that did not hurt so greatly.  "I remember."

        Pleased at eliciting a laugh, the wizard continued, "Is it possible that you could use these … dreams … in the same way?  If they are destined to come true, perhaps you could be forewarned and so be prepared for their reality."  The hobbit was regarding him intently, that brilliant so-blue gaze centered on his.  "What do you remember of these dreams?" Gandalf pressed gently.

        Frodo shook his head, uncomfortable again.  "Just fragments.  More … more feelings of hopelessness and terror than anything else.  There's so much darkness.  Darkness and … rock, I think – great carved pillars, rows and rows of them.  Walking in the dark.  Darkness and climbing, climbing up long stairs.   There's something dreadful at the top of the stairs…"

       Frodo's face had paled as he spoke and Gandalf leaned forward again and recaptured the hobbit's hand in his free one.  Frodo jumped, his attention abruptly turned outward again.

       "Frodo," the wizard said softly, "keeping these things to yourself will not help.  You are _not_ sparing your friends grief by hiding your fears from them.  Rather, you increase their pain because they see you suffering, and you will not allow their help."  Frodo had dropped his eyes, staring at the wizard's hand as it rubbed gently over his.  He raised them again when Gandalf waved the pipe bowl under his nose, wafting sweet smoke into his face.  Gandalf reversed the pipe and poked the hobbit in the chest with the stem.  "'Troubles shared are troubles halved,' as I believe it is said in the Shire.  Will you not let those who love you help?"

       "What can they do, Gandalf?" Frodo responded.  "What can anyone do?"

       These were the words the old wizard had been waiting for.  "They can be by your side when you need them.  They can support your steps when you falter.  No one else may carry your burden, Ringbearer, but they may help carry _you_."

      Frodo nodded slowly.

      "There is no shame in letting Merry and Pippin see you as other than the eldest, wiser cousin, Frodo.  They have looked up to you all of their lives and they will continue to do so, now more than ever.  Do you fear you will lose their love because of this Quest."

      "And what of their _lives_, Gandalf?   What if Merry and Pippin and Sam _die_ because of me?"

      'Now we come to it,' thought the wizard.  Gentle words of reassurance rose to his lips but never found their way out.  Samwise, forgotten by them both, stood by his master's side.  "Beggin' your pardon for interrupting, sir," the stocky hobbit said softly, "but as you included me, I feel I 'ave the right 'ta put in my say."  Sam blushed when both of them turned to him, but he continued on doggedly.

       "Me and Mr. Merry an' Master Pippin are going with you o' our own free will.  We know what's at stake.  We might not be any good at all 'ta you in fighting off orcs or finding our way across the Wild, but we can cook a meal an' tend a pony an' be there when you need reminding o' the Shire.  The Big Folk can't do that for you.  We're going 'cause you might need reminding what's at stake for all o' us."

       In the silence that followed, the wizard at last shifted in his chair and laid a hand on Samwise's shoulder.  "Well said, Sam," he said softly.  Slowly he rose, stiff from long sitting, shaking crumbs of sweetcake off his robe.  Frodo's eyes turned from him to Sam and back again, conflict still evident in his strained features.

       Frodo's hand reached out and caught the wizard's robes as Gandalf turned to go.  "Thank you," the hobbit said softly.  "Both of you."

       Sam beamed at him.  Gandalf smiled and leaned down, lightly stroking the hobbit's dark curls among the bandages.  "You're welcome, Frodo.  Don't close yourself up against us again, my friend.  I wouldn't be at all surprised if your nightmares don't start easing up now, at last."  He sighed as he straightened, looking out of the great balcony door into the deepening twilight.  Summoning the smallest spark of Power, he again touched the hobbit's forehead.  "Sleep, Frodo … without dreams …"

* * * * *

        Close by in their shared room, Merry and Pippin sprawled on their own beds, asleep.  After the last bath of the day, they could not even summon the energy to go to the dining hall when the chimes rang.  Aragorn stood in the doorway and regarded them gravely, a covered tray in his hands.  When the young hobbits had not come to dinner, the Ranger was fairly certain he could guess what had happened.  Noiselessly, he put the heavy tray down on one of the small tables and pulled up more covers the two, letting them sleep the exhausted sleep of the virtuous.

* * * * *

       The two woke at cock's first crow after a long and restful night.  The first thing they were aware of was hunger.  The second was the simple, aching pain of overstrained muscles.  Pippin rolled out of bed with a pitiful groan, sliding to the floor and using the bed to lever himself to his knees then his feet.  He dragged himself over to the covered tray, where his little crow of delight alerted his older cousin to the bounty.

       They changed their clothes while they ate, their hunger compensating for food long gone cold.  In between comments on yesterday's hardships and their upcoming Adventure, Merry decided to take the youngster to task for creating such as uproar and earning them the Master of Rivendell's displeasure.

       "Why did you _do_ that, Pip?"

       "The baker said we could make anything we wanted with the leftover dough, Merry.  It was just a joke.  Nobody else was supposed to see it."

       Well, he had pulled some fairly ridiculous stunts as a tweenager too … there was that incident with the punch-bowl at a cousin's coming-of-age party … and stealing the lasses' clothes at the Bywater pond – he'd been whipped for that one … and… _nothing _Pippin needed to know about.  At least the high-born lady had been forgiving, and after her initial shock, amused.  Which did not explain why the youngster was stuffing the disreputable-appearing bread sculpture in his pack.  "And why have you still got it?  It is going stale."

       "It's mine," Pippin replied with the all the unreasonableness of an affronted tweenager.  Merry reflected that Tooks had their own share of stubbornness.  Knowing better than to make an issue of it and cement Pippin's attachment to the stupid thing, Merry gave up.  No doubt the youngster would discard it in a day or two.

       This morning they were assigned to the stables, and appeared there with the sun (and with considerably less enthusiasm than they had reported to the kitchens).  It had been mutually agreed that the miscreants would make their reparations in the kitchens and the stables on alternating days; no one wanting them to work in the stables _then_ work in the kitchens.  Greeted by the stable master, they were directed to pitchforks and scrub brushes and buckets, and set to cleaning Bill's stall.

         Bill seemed to produce an amazing amount of manure for such a small pony.  They forked out the soiled bedding, scrubbed down the floor, then forked in the fresh.  The mangers were emptied, scrubbed and refilled with hay, winter grass, a handful of oats and a small amount of sweet mash which the pony ate greedily.  Bill himself was curried and his mane and tail brushed till they shone.  The pony was thoroughly petted and fed far more treats than were good for him.  In the next stall, Asfaloth hung his great head over the partition and so in return received such a goodly number of apples and carrots that Glorfindel, arriving some time later, politely asked the two to stop feeding his stallion.  Asfaloth snorted at his master and pointedly turned his back on the Elf.

      The chimes for luncheon caught them off-guard and sent them scrambling.  Not daring to enter the dining hall as they were, they ducked around to the kitchens and begged the head cook for food, unknowing how the kitchen staff smiled to see the stern and demanding head cook unbend under the influence of wistful eyes that barely came up to his waist.

        Then they had _another_ bath.  It was a good thing that both he and Pip could swim, Merry thought, as in the elven-sized baths, the water came up over their heads unless they stood on the submerged benches.  They could have sent for a tub and hot water and bathed in their rooms, of course, but the bathhouses of Rivendell were a delight.  The bathhouse was divided into several close rooms, each with a great square tub sunk into the center of room.  Each tub had steps leading down into it and benches built along it, arranged for languid soaking and conversation.  Warm water was piped in through some contrivance of pipes and furnaces that the hobbits did not understand, all built underneath the raised and heated floor.  A great boiler, dwarven-made, heated water and carried it to the baths, where steaming hot water emerged with just a turn of the handle.  It was a wonder to the hobbits, a cross between a tub and a lake, and even the notoriously bath-shy Peregrin rejoiced in the warm water and paddled about like a small dog, shaking water from his curly head and increasing the comparison.  Merry leaned back against the warm side and sighed, feeling knots loosen out of his shoulders that he'd feared were permanent.

       So Aragorn found them, after checking their room; Frodo's room, the kitchens, the Library, the kitchens, the stables, all the gardens, the kitchens, and finally the baths when directed there by an Elf who had passed them upwind.  The Ranger leaned his tall frame against the door and watched as one small form half-floated in the steaming water, entirely at peace, and the other splashed and paddled about in a whirl of seemingly endless activity.  He waited until the waves had subsided from Pippin's latest dive then cleared his throat loudly.

       "Your pardon," Aragorn said contritely, as both dripping heads jerked upright.  "Are you all right, Pippin?  I did not mean to surprise you."

       Pippin nodded, choking on the mouthful of water he had inadvertently taken in and struggled to the side of the bath where Merry snagged him and steadied him against the wall.  They had to tilt their heads far back to meet his eyes.  Hiding a smile, Aragorn crouched down to where he could address them more easily.

         "I am sorry to disturb you.  Could you come to my rooms when you are finished?  We must leave early tomorrow and I would be certain you two are prepared."

         "We haven't visited Frodo yet," Merry replied.  "Do you mind if we come after seeing him?"

         "Not at all," the Ranger assured them.  Pippin was still making faces over the water he had swallowed.  Seeing the Ranger's eyes on him, Pippin grimaced a final time and nodded.  "Good.  Give my regards to your cousin.  I hope to see him before we depart." 

      "We will," echoed after him as he left the warm, water-laden air.   

* TBC *


	20. Swift Riding and Swift Waters

(Author's Note:   Baylor, your comment about Elrond looking forward to Imladris being pronounced "free of young hobbits" made me roar.  I must make Elrond say that, somewhere.  Probably the next time they drive him up a wall.  Shirebound, sorry, that _was_ mud and not manure.  In "Stars in the Dark," I made poor Pippin crawl through worse, so he ought to be grateful to just get dirty.  A Elbereth, me too.  Frodo-centric stories and conversations are more involving, somehow.  QTPie-2488, I think Frodo needs time to recover from his cousins, so this chapter is focusing on them.  TrueFan, was this fast enough for you? [Pant, pant, gasp.]  This story has been a solid "G" up to now but things are going to take a more serious turn.  I hope no one minds.  Again, my thanks to everyone who has read this story and enjoyed it.  Happy New Year!)

Chapter 20:  Swift Riding and Swift Waters 

       The small figure crawled along the ground, hugging it closely and taking advantage of the cold light of the half-full moon to evade the still forms and scattered paraphernalia of the sleeping scouting party.  The night was already bitterly cold through it was but an hour after moonrise, and white breath issued between the figure's small lips, pursed in concentration as it sought a silent and stealthy route between the dark-shadowed forms.  Arriving at last at its goal, it sat back on its haunches and rubbed its hands together, fingers stiff and cold from feeling its way among the chill grass and small rocks that comprised this small dell one day's ride out of Rivendell.

       The stretched-out form of the sleeping Man seemed enormous to the small figure, and for a moment, it hesitated.  Then it inched closer and gently prodded the Man in the shoulder.  "Arag - _uhh_ -"

       The rest was lost in a choked gasp as the still figure erupted into movement, crushing the small figure in its arms and pinning it, rolling over it with a knife glinting at its throat.  Moonlight reflected in the suddenly terrified wide eyes of the hobbit, and Aragorn allowed himself a brief, sub-vocalized curse as he eased up his hold and carefully moved the gleaming knife away from the unprotected throat.

       "Pippin," the Ranger whispered harshly, fighting to keep his voice low, "how many times have I told you to never, _never_ sneak up on me?  I have lived too long in the Wild, in places where a touch in the night might mean death, to wake gently."  The small form beneath him stared up at him, eyes still huge.  The Ranger released him and sat up, drawing the smaller figure with him.

       Past them, Elladan had turned at their movement and would have started towards them, but Aragorn raised a hand and shook his head.  The Elf regarded them doubtfully for a moment, then nodded and returned to his watch, dark eyes scanning the monochrome landscape.  This sheltered hollow was the best cover they could find in the largely flat terrain, spare of trees and cluttered with smooth gray boulders.  The small scouting party had ridden past many great crumbling ruins, roofless halls and tumbled stone giving silent testament to more auspicious days.  They might have been better sheltered among the old ruins that dotted the area, but none wanted to rest among the remembrances of Men and Elves that had died here long ago.

      Aragorn sighed into the cold night and returned his attention to the hobbit.  "All right, Pippin.  I'm awake now.  What is it?"

       The young hobbit's wide eyes met his for a moment, then traveled to the long knife the Ranger still held raised in his hand.   Moonlight glittered along its razor-sharp edge.  Following the youngster's gaze, Aragorn sheathed the blade then leaned forward to wrap one of his blankets around the stiff form.  Pippin at last relaxed, beginning to tremble slightly in reaction.

       "I'm sorry I frightened you," Aragorn said softly.  "But I did warn you, Pippin.  Don't ever do that again."

       The young hobbit nodded, his wide eyes on the Ranger's moon-lit face.  "I'm sorry, Strider.  I forgot."

       'I imagine you will not forget again,' thought the Ranger.  'A good scare seems to be the best way of making you remember something, my young friend.'  Aloud, Aragorn said gently, "Why did you wake me, Pippin?"

       "Oh."  The tweenager visibly gathered himself.  "I was wondering if Merry and I could ride with you and one of the twins tomorrow instead of sharing Inmara."

      Aragorn regarded what he could see of Pippin's shadowed face with surprise.  The two hobbits had been more reserved than their usual wont around the tall sons of Elrond, addressing the twins formally and on their best and most courteous behavior.  The Ranger had attributed this to shyness and the hobbits' confusion over which twin was which.  Long used to being mistaken for each other, Elladan and Elrohir had returned the courtesies with amusement.  Having had less contact with the little ones than their father, the twins found the halflings entirely winning, and by early afternoon, the hobbits were chatting with the Elves like old friends.

       The mare, Inmara, was another story.  Despite Aragorn's assurances that the elderly mare would carry them safely, the two hobbits were hard-put to ride the elven steed.  This was not due to Inmara's temperament; she was gentle and careful of her small riders.  But the hobbits' legs stuck out absurdly and uncomfortably around her great barrel, and nothing the Ranger or Elves could do could lessen the discomfort of the hobbits trying to ride a horse that was too big for them.

       After a full day's ride with only short breaks, Aragorn had lifted Merry and Pippin down from the mare's back and set them on their feet.  The two had both promptly collapsed, tears gathering in their eyes as they fought the agony of abused muscles and abraded skin.  Accustomed to ponies less than half  Inmara's size, they had labored to grasp her barrel with their short legs, and this unendurable pain was the result.  Elladan and Elrohir would have massaged the knotted muscles and eased their pain but the two could not bear pressure on their abraded skin.  Aragorn had chosen a campsite by a small, swift river and the two had spent most of the evening sitting in the shallows of the flow, numbing their lower halves to such a point that the Elves had had to carry them back to camp for the dinner Aragorn had prepared.

       That it was Merry and Pippin's job to cook dinner only increased their misery.  Merry had eaten very little then curled up into a tight a ball as he could, a blanket rolled between his knees, and sought escape in sleep.  Pippin, being younger and more flexible, had suffered less.  Pippin also had a more active imagination than his cousin, and thoughts of the riding on the morrow had kept him awake, then spurred him to seek out the Ranger and beg, if he had to.

       "Do you think that you could keep your seats better riding with us?" Aragorn asked.

       Pippin nodded eagerly.  "We could turn sideways for a while if we need to, and we wouldn't have to hold on so hard with our legs.  You don't think Inmara would mind, do you?"

       Aragorn shook his head and swallowed a laugh.  "No, I think not.  She is a wise old mare.  In fact, we will remove her tack tomorrow and send her back with a note explaining that she is not needed.  She knows her way home.  I think she will be more than happy to return to her warm stall."

        Pippin's sigh of overwhelming relief was unmistakable, even if Aragorn could not see his face in the dim light.  With a final, whispered, "thank you," the tweenager crawled back to his blankets, scuttling sideways like a crab to avoid his sore thighs rubbing together.

       Now awake, Aragorn did not find sleep again so easily.  He was not tired; a day's fast ride was of little import to a Ranger.  Seeing no need for two to be awake, he hissed at Elladan and the Elf's head turned immediately towards him.  He motioned to Elladan (knowing his foster-brother had overheard every word of his and Pippin's soft-voiced conversation) and rose, taking his watch early.  Wordlessly, Elladan nodded and sank silently down by his brother to rest the remainder of the night.

       Back to the others, Aragorn seated himself cross-legged on the blanket and reflected on the wisdom of Elrond and Gandalf's decision not to use horses on the first part of their journey.  He had objected, arguing that the speed the horses would give them would compensate for the additional burden of feeding and caring for them.  Now he was glad he had been overruled; after seeing the little ones' suffering on just one day's ride, he could not imagine subjecting four hobbits and most likely the dwarf to such pain.  Nine Walkers, he mused.  Much better than the Four Riders and the Five Crawlers.

* * * * *

       Merry woke abruptly when he tried to roll over onto his side and aching muscles screamed at him.  Stifling a cry, he dug his hands into his blankets and managed to turn the groan into a gasp.  Next to him, Pippin murmured something in his sleep and shifted, pulling the blankets up over the top of his curly head.  Relieved that he had not awoken his cousin, Merry grimaced and pulled himself up into a seated position, looking about him.

       Elrohir, on watch, inclined his head gracefully at the hobbit and Merry returned the nod.  He still was not certain how he could tell Elrohir from Elladan, so alike were they, but now he had no difficulty in distinguishing between them.  The merest breath of dawn was breaking over the eastern mountains and with a surge of humiliation, Merry realized that he and Pippin had been allowed to sleep all night instead of taking their turn at watch. 

         Well, he was _through_ being coddled.  Gritting his teeth, Merry dragged himself from his blankets and struggled to his feet.  His backside and legs felt like the skin was too small to hold the painfully swollen flesh within.  Elrohir watched him with one dark eyebrow raised, looking so like his lord father that Merry grinned at him.  The Elf returned the smile and made no move to stop him as Merry gestured towards the stream, then himself, and picked up one of his blankets.

        The others he tucked around Pippin, all of whom he could see was a few stray curls peeking out of the bedroll.  The blanket-covered lump muttered again and returned to deep sleep, savoring the additional warmth.

        Carefully, Merry pointed his toes outward and waddled the short distance to the water, kneeling on the blanket to perform his ablutions in record time.  Despite the soreness, much of the damage had already healed, thanks to the soothing aspect of the cold waters and his own hobbit resilience.  It was while he was giving his face a final rinse that he saw the dark shape slip underneath the rippling water.  A flash of fin, the shine of the rising sun on iridescent scales.  Trout … and a large one.  Several more glided underneath the cold waters, sleek bodies undulating against the sandy river bottom.  Merry's mouth began immediately to water.

       If he could just catch a few for breakfast, he might partially make up for inconveniencing the Big Folk and missing his watch.  Trout, fresh from the stream … pan-fried with a coating of flour and breadcrumbs … maybe he could get Pip to donate that bread sculpture – put the stupid thing to good use.  The flesh expertly filleted so that the backbone and small rib-bones peeled off, leaving only the succulent, tender flesh in a crunchy wrapping of oil-browned skin…

       The fish were beginning to rise for the flies that skimmed over the water's surface.  Moving very slowly and carefully, Merry retreated from the water's edge and cast about for a means of catching them.  Standing in the cold water and capturing them with his hands was out of the question; only a fool pitted his speed against that of the lightening-swift fish.  No fishing rod, no fishing line, no hooks…    It was hopeless.

       Fish-spear.  Nothing to make one with – no sturdy straight branches within easy reach and no forged spear-points, either.  A fish-trap – impossible to construct in the seconds in which he had to act.  A net … a net…   Still moving very slowly, and keeping back from the water, Merry removed his cloak and shook it out.  He filled the hood and pockets with the many small stones that lay about then tried casting it onto the ground.  The cloak spun easily into the air then dropped heavily in a horizontal sheet, pulling down at the weighted corners.  Were he quick enough…

      Holding the rolled-up cloak, Merry eased himself onto a fallen log that extended out into the water.  The water was swifter in the middle of the river, a narrow band of frothy white, and he was careful in turning himself around and positioning himself.  He now stood beyond the where the trout were feeding, marking the water with small ever-widening circles that expanded into ever-fainter rings.

         The log shifted slightly as he leaned forward, but Merry did not take note of it as his furry toes dug into the rotting wood for purchase.  He was wholly intent upon his cast, small body focused as he crouched and readied the cloak.  In one burst of effort, the hobbit swung the heavy cloth into the air and watched as it sailed gracefully over the feeding area and dropped directly onto the trout.

         Silvered forms darted from beneath the trap but the rocks in the pocket and hood pulled the cloth down over several more, and Merry could see the cloak tent as small forms leaped from the water against the imprisoning cloth.

        With a shout of triumph, Merry pushed off the log and leaped down into frigid water.  Unbalanced by the momentum of the hobbit's leap, the log pivoted from its unstable perch on the sandy shore and swung, catching Merry along the side as he waded towards the cloak.  Caught off-guard, Merry threw out both arms and managed one cry before the log knocked him down into the freezing water and rolled over him.

* TBC *


	21. Down Into the Darkness

(Author's Note:  Shirebound, thank you for that correction – I got a new spell-check program for Christmas but it evidently isn'ttelepathic. [Drat.]   Please don't hide under your desk; I would wither and die if deprived of your stories.  Nilmandra, I too would like to see more of the twins, and see the lighter side of Estel when he is around them.  Claudia, thank you – I kept it light for as long as I could but the internal pressure has been building and just became too much.  Back to the angst…  Katakanadian, Pip would get a huge kick out of that festival – he's just the right age.  Lily Baggins, the dark parts are my favorite, too.  That worries me sometimes.  Chibi neko, thank you!  I hope you enjoy.  Baylor, I'll try not to hurt Merry too much … though the temptation is overwhelming.  QTP-2488, I think that must have happened too.  Just _once_, however.  Firiel, I think that's because the characters are so real to me.  TrueFan, just a little Frodo here.  He is supposed to be resting, after all.  Thank you, everyone, for your reviews and comments.)

Chapter 21:  Down Into the Darkness

       Elladan raised his head from rolling up his and Elrohir's blankets, his dark eyes startled.  "What was that?" he asked, rising to his feet in one fluid, graceful movement.  Beside him, his brother paused in his work of brushing his stallion, and both his head and the horse's canted to the side, four delicately pointed ears listening intently.

       "What was what?" Aragorn asked, taking the packet of foodstuffs Pippin held up to him and tying it to his horse.  Pippin stared up at him, puzzled.  "I didn't hear anything."

       "We did," both Elves replied simultaneously, as they often did.  Elladan frowned, seeking movement on the flat landscape with his dark, clear-seeing eyes.  "A soft cry in the distance, I think.  Where is Merry?"

       "He went to wash in the river," Elrohir supplied.  "I saw him –"

        Aragorn was already moving.  Throwing the reins to Pippin, the Ranger was racing towards the swift water, his long legs moving at a pace the hobbit could not hope to match.  Pippin hastily tied the reins to a nearby bush and ran after the Man as fast as his short legs would carry him.  Behind him, Inmara, also tied, twisted her head and expertly pulled her reins free.  Whirling on her haunches, the old mare followed her rider and the larger figure.  Elladan snatched for her flying reins but was not close enough; the twins could only watch as all three figures disappeared over the slight rise that separated their campsite from the swiftly-flowing water.

       The three other horses, the twin's stallions and Aragorn's gelding, sought to follow, herd-instinct demanding they go after the wise old mare.  "Catch them, brother!"  Elrohir cried, leaping towards the milling horses.  Elladan yanked his own stallion's head down and caught the other's headstalls, stopping the stampede with the weight of his body, the horses dragging him several yards before their training overruled their instincts.

        Pippin paused at the top of the rise, all strength fleeing from his limbs.  Before his horrified eyes, he briefly saw the top of Merry's water-soaked curls before they disappeared again in the frothy white of the river.  "Merry!" he screamed, his voice gone shrill with terror.  Merry twisted towards him and he saw his cousin's white face for one instant before the great, rotted log bobbed over him, pushed by the swift current but still dragging one end on the sandy shore.  Merry resurfaced again, his back to them, small hands snatching desperately at the log.  But he could not gain a hold and with another dip, the log shook him off.  Merry went under again and this time did not come up.

       Aragorn plunged into the river with an inarticulate shout, the freezing water instantly turning the dark green suede of his leggings to black.  The shock of the frigid water momentarily slowed the Ranger, then he was moving again, plummeting full into the flow.  Sinking to the earth on strengthless legs, Pippin could only watch as the Man fought his way along the log and dove beneath the surface. 

      For long moments, there was no sign of man or hobbit.  Pippin was holding his breath; if Merry could not breathe, then neither could he.  They had not come up, either of them, he must _do_ something.  Refusing to acknowledge that he had no chance against the swift waters well over his head, Pippin unfroze his limbs and ran to the edge of the water.  He had only just entered it when the Man's dark head appeared above the water, and Merry…   Merry hung limply in his grasp, Aragorn's arm around his chest.  He wasn't moving and he didn't appear to be breathing.

     "Inmara!  Inmara, to me!"  Aragorn shouted.  Pippin didn't understand – what…  Then the mare plunged past him, her great body knocking the small hobbit backwards to the bank.  Aragorn was struggling along the length of the rotted log, hampered by Merry's limp form.  'Raise your head, Merry,' thought Pippin.  'Let me know you're alive.  Merry, _please_…'

       The mare was struggling to answer Aragorn's call.  Though small by elven standards, her great hindquarters bunched as she dug her hooves into the sandy river bottom and pushed herself forward.  Abandoning the log, Aragorn threw himself towards her, the swift water swirling about him, pushing him towards the center of the flow and the dark shapes of the jagged rocks there.  Inmara reared, her forequarters clearing the water, and leaped.  Aragorn caught her bridle just as the water swept his feet out from under him.  Momentarily lengthwise in the water, he rolled sideways to bring Merry's limp form up above him.

       Inmara squealed in pain when their weight hit the end of her rein, but she did not give way.  The mare dug in her hindquarters, her neck stretched out in a straight line, and began to back in response to Aragorn's soft, choking urgings.  "Good girl," he gasped at her, "back up, back up, Inmara.  Back, back…"  Another mouthful of water silenced the Man but the mare continued to back, ears laid flat against her head in agony, pulling the two bedraggled forms with her.

        Aragorn was almost within touching distance of the shifting bottom when the log, unbalanced and now caught in the swift current, tore free of its precarious mooring and swung out into the flow.  The anchored end swung and caught the Ranger directly on the back, sweeping them both under.  Aragorn surfaced a moment later, shaking water from his hair, hands empty.  Remotely he heard Pippin scream on the bank, his eyes sweeping the water for Merry's unconscious form.  He raised wide eyes to the frantic hobbit's and followed Pippin's shaking finger.  Turning, he was just in time to see Merry's mop of blond curls disappearing around the bend.

       Elrohir thundered past him on the bank, his stallion's long neck outstretched, following the small, bobbing figure.  The swift water had pressed Merry to the surface, feet first was he being pushed down the river.  Without saddle or bridle, the Elf crouched over the stallion's straining flanks, the great hooves struggling to find purchase on the uncertain ground.  His knees drawn up, Elrohir tried to keep his weight forward over the stallion's withers, using his weight to help the great animal find his footing in the shifting sand.  Aragorn shouted at him as he flew past and the Elf nodded, his dark gaze never leaving the bobbing form being swept before him.

       With a final shove, Inmara heaved herself up onto the banks, dragging Aragorn into the shallows where the hobbits had numbed their saddle-sore backsides the previous evening.  Pippin hooked his arms under the Ranger's shoulders and managed to drag him half out of the water, fear lending the tweenager unaccountable strength.  Aragorn loosened the rein and pulled himself up beside Pippin, panting hoarsely.  The mare stood by them, head drooping, her great sides heaving from the effort. 

       Elladan appeared by their side and helped to pull the soaked Ranger free of the grasping water and onto the shore.  Delayed by having to calm the other two horses, he had not seen his brother in pursuit of Merry's unconscious form.  "Where is the little one?" he called to Aragorn, who could only gesture a shaking arm towards the bend, his teeth chattering too much to reply. 

      Elladan started in pursuit, then his dark gaze returned to the shivering pair on the beach.  Swiftly he turned his stallion and pushed a bundle of blankets from his horse's hindquarters, dropping them directly onto Aragorn.  "Estel, you must build a fire.  There is flint and tinder with the blankets.  Dry yourselves or the river will claim you yet."  Still shaking too much to talk, Aragorn nodded and wrapped the first blanket around the trembling hobbit.  

     "I will go after them."  Elladan's dark eyes roved to the trembling tweenager.  "Do not fear, Pippin," he added softly.  "We will bring him back."  With that, the Elf dug his heels into the stallion's sides and the two leaped away in pursuit.  

* * * * *

       "Sure is quiet 'round here, ain't it?"  Sam remarked with a soft, happy sigh.  The remaining hobbit population of Rivendell were relaxing in the small courtyard outside of Frodo's room, tilting their heads back to feel the sun warm on their faces.  Bilbo and Frodo shared a bench against the sun-warmed wall and Sam sat at his ease on the ground between them, his knees drawn up comfortably and his hands busy examining the tiny white flowers that grew in the sheltered soil.   The flowers were unlike any the gardener had seen, like white lace laid against the dark soil, and he was carefully replanting the several he had eased from the earth to inspect their root systems.

       Neither of the two hobbits replied to Sam's idle query, both sleepy and too full of luncheon to exert themselves overmuch.  Frodo yawned then winced as the movement pulled at the bruise on his face.  The cut above his eye was healing nicely but remained tender and Frodo was quite happy to sit and revel in the peace and tranquility. 

       "Delightful afternoon," Bilbo confirmed eventually, after some time had passed in peaceful silence.  The old hobbit withdrew his pipe from his mouth and gently blew a series a smoke-rings, which the hobbits watch drift into the distance.   Seeing his nephew's eyes fasten longingly on the pipe, Bilbo shook his head.  "Sorry, lad.  Not till Elrond says it's all right."

       Frodo sighed and nodded, content to sit in the sun.   "I hope Merry and Pippin are enjoying themselves," he remarked after a while.

       Sam dusted off his hands and eased himself up on the bench between the two.  'Me too,' he thought. "A long, long ways from 'ere.'

       Bilbo yawned, then gently nudged Frodo across Sam.  "Come on, lad.  Time for your nap.  Mine, too, I think."

       Frodo groaned and rolled his eyes.  "Really, Bilbo, that isn't necessary.  I am quite all right – and _quite_ tired of taking naps.  I want to be ready to meet the Company after tea in the Library.  Gandalf is going to explain our route to us."

       "Then you'll be more alert after a nap, won't you?"  Bilbo was adamant.  "Tell you what, Frodo-lad.  I won't ask you to take another after today if you'll not give me an argument now."

      Frodo sighed deeply but would never gainsay his beloved uncle.  "All right, Bilbo, all right.  Sam, you heard him say that, didn't you?"

      "Aye, sir.  I'll remind him o' it, if necessary."

      Heaving another deep sigh, Frodo dragged himself to his feet and trudged slump-shouldered into his room.  Bilbo and Sam stared after the dejected figure, then burst into stifled laughter.

* * * * *     

        Despite what Aragorn had thought as he crushed the hobbit to him, Merry was not completely unconscious.   He battled against the freezing water to retain the spark of awareness left in him, to spread his unresponsive arms sufficiently to float.  The log had caught him a solid blow across the brow as it bobbed above him, stunning him but not sending him into the cold blackness that would surely have resulted in drowning.  Like most of the Brandybucks living near the Brandywine river, Merry could swim, and swim well.  But his limbs would not obey him.  Fighting against the blackness that seemed to weight his mind and cloud his thoughts, he retained just enough wakefulness to stay on his back, head tilted into the water and chin and hips raised.

       He was not aware of much past the freezing water washing over his face and body.  Disjointed scenes flashed through his mind, Pippin's shriek echoing to him from the shore, Aragorn's arms like iron bands around him, then the rolling of the enormous log and he was adrift again, tumbling in the swift waters.   All was coldness that was dissolving into red-tinged darkness.  When his small body slammed against one of the jagged boulders in the swiftest part of the river, Merry knew only pressure, not pain.

       The tiny disjointed part of his mind that sat back to observe his own death commented that this was most likely a bad sign, and Merry agreed.  'I'm sorry, Pip,' was his last coherent thought.  'I'm sorry, Frodo.  I've failed you.'

* TBC *   


	22. Astonishments and Embarrassments

(Author's Note:   QTPie-2488 and shirebound, I'll bet you are surprised that the requested chpt. 22 came up so quick.  It just kept pushing at me … you know the feeling.  Jaimi, I'm glad you're enjoying the story.  TrueFan, every chapter needs a leveling of humor.  Sigil, are you ever right [heaves a deep sigh and takes a moment to stare dreamily out the window].  Coriandra, thank _you_.  Merry rarely blows it like his younger cousin, but when he does, he does it in style.  Bookworm, getting this chapter up quickly was for you, too.  Thanks, everyone, and I hope you enjoy.)

Chapter 22:  Astonishments and Embarrassments

       Frodo inhaled deeply, savoring the faint fragrance of sun-warmed dust and slightly musty paper that he always associated with books.  His promised nap and tea dispensed with, he had come to the Library well before the appointed meeting time just to browse through the shelves and delight in the uncounted books and scrolls and maps, running his hands along their bindings and enjoying their feel as if they were living things.  He could almost imagine them arching their leather-bound backs and purring like cats at his gentle, respectful attention.

       Samwise kept an eye on his master from the depths of one of the great chairs, content to take his ease and watch Frodo climb up and down the rolling ladders to admire the rows and rows of reading material.  Though Sam had been taught his letters by old Mr. Bilbo when he was a lad, Sam had always placed the joy of encouraging life under his calloused hands above intellectual delights.  The sturdy hobbit smiled now to see Frodo so absorbed that an occasional absent–minded gasp when he stretched his left arm was the only sign of the injury that had nearly taken his master's life upon their arrival in Rivendell but three weeks before.

        Both hobbits turned towards one of the alcove doors at a loud rattle, followed by a thump.  The Master of Rivendell swept through, followed by a tall Elf unknown to them.  The unknown Elf turned and bent to lift the edge of a great wooden table, folded in half and rolling on small metal casters.  The other end was being pushed by the Wood-elf, Legolas.  Legolas raised his blond head and smiled at them around the table, then put his slender back under it and lifted it.  Muscles straining, the two Elves dragged and pushed the table on its cranky casters over the threshold and guided it to the center of the room.   Elrond dismissed the Elf with a nod of thanks, and the Elf bowed and took his leave.  Reaching up to unlatch a catch holding the two halves together, Elrond spread the table flat and Legolas swung one of the pivoting legs underneath it and locked it down.  The Elf-lord leaned over the great tableau, spreading his hands to place one on each side of the center partition, his ageless gaze both proud and sorrowful as he looked down upon the world.

       The table between the Elf-lord's hands was a topographical map of Middle-earth, unlike any Frodo had ever heard of or seen.  Rather than just ink on paper, this map boasted tiny carved mountain ranges of tiger-eye and rivers of lapis lazuli and great lakes of crystal quartz, all cut to scale and embedded into the mahogany platform.  Cities and towns were marked by small gemstones; opals, pearls and moonstones for Elven habitations; topaz, garnets and aquamarines for cities of Men and Dwarves.  Forests were marked out in pale green enamel, studded with tiny peridot stones that much resembled a forest canopy.  Fascinated, Frodo climbed down the ladder and crowded close as Legolas and Sam moved to examine the opposite end. 

       The map-table was a wonder**.**  Folded out, the great flat table was large enough to seat a dozen Big Folk about it, and was detailed enough that every significant mountain range or lake or geographic feature was represented in scale to itself and to Middle-earth.  Next to each feature was written its name in fine elvish script, then repeated in Westron.   The writing was inlaid in the truesilver of Dwarven-kind, precious _mithril_.  All present were struck dumb with amazement.

        Fashioned for those of Elven height, the hobbits could not see much of the map beyond its edges.  Sam watched as his master's slender hand located the Shire, then retraced their route to Rivendell.  Sam edged closer when Frodo's hand began to shake over the small conical hill of carven marble marked "Weathertop," but Frodo rallied and the hand glided quickly on.

       "It is a marvel," Frodo breathed, stroking the beautifully-carven edge, his face alight.  "Never have I seen the like."

      Elrond nodded.  "It is one of my most treasured possessions.  Many years of map-making expeditions of Men and Elves have gone into its making.  See, we stand here," and his long finger indicated the single perfect diamond that represented the Last Homely House.  "Areas close to Imladris, from the west of the world to the east, are well-represented."

      The Elf-lord's eyes darkened as his gaze moved further east.   The easternmost lands were shaped of unpolished obsidian, laced with spiky outcroppings of hematite.  Mount Doom stood alone far within the borders of the Black Lands, represented by a single glowing crystal of red tourmaline.  The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows seemed to catch and glint on the ruby-toned gemstone, commanding their attention and sobering their souls.  His ageless gaze upon the crystal, Elrond said softly "But of Mordor, it shows little."

      "Perhaps we will be able to add to it, should our Quest lead us there," put in a rough voice from the door, and those already present turned to behold Gandalf, staff in hand, with Boromir and Gimli at his side.  The wizard glanced around the landform map.  "Since those of us who are not gone with Aragorn are accounted for," he continued, "shall we begin?"

* * * * * 

       Merry was dimly annoyed that pain should be allowed to follow him past death.  Pain shouldn't be permitted after one died, he thought resentfully.  It wasn't fair.  Then the pain abruptly intensified and he cried out.

       "Shhh, Merry, it is all right," a soft voice said above him.  The hobbit thought that was patently ridiculous; being dead certainly wasn't all right.  Odd how the soft voice sounded like Elrohir.  And what business did a voice have, however soft, talking to him after he had died?

       Merry cranked his eyes open painfully.  Above him drifted a dark blob, which to his blinking eyes slowly resolved itself into the dark-haired head and shoulders of an Elf.  Merry clung stubbornly to the idea that he had died, but when Elrohir tried to lift him, the hobbit was forced to acknowledge that he lived by the pain that slashed through his side and right arm.    Another cry was torn from him and gentle hands stroked his face before returning to carefully pressing along his body and limbs.  He coughed then gagged as his stomach sought to expel the half of the river he had swallowed.  The gentle hands turned him swiftly onto his side, but the movement was too much, and as water gushed from his mouth, he fainted.

        "Hobbits are remarkably tough," someone was saying.  Merry wanted to disagree but it seemed too much effort.  "The freezing water actually kept the bleeding to a minimum and I have no doubt it dulled the pain of his arm.  The ribs are badly bruised but are not broken.  That long scrape on his broken arm will be very sore as the skin grows back over it.  He must have dragged it over one of the boulders.  Pippin, would you please move back a little?"

       Again Merry fought and won the battle to force his eyes open.  Pippin's sharp nose hovered perhaps an inch from his own as his younger cousin tried to peer into Merry's blurring eyes.  "He's awake!" Pippin announced, withdrawing his curly head from Aragorn's way.  "Oi!  Are you all right, Cousin?"

       Struggling to focus, Merry drew breath for a reply then abruptly gagged again.  Pippin hastily scooted further back.  Strong hands were lifting him and turning him towards the ground, but other than a few wrenching chokes, nothing more came out of his abused stomach.  The hands lowered him again then moved to wipe his face with a soft cloth.

       Shifting his gaze to the left, Merry saw that Elrohir crouched by his side while Elladan slowly walked the horses, their sides and muzzles flecked with foam.  Elrohir's great stallion was wet up to his withers, the water darkening his silver-gray hide to burnished pewter.  That left Aragorn holding him.  Merry rolled his eyes upwards and confirmed that hypothesis, and saw the Ranger smile as their gazes met.

       "It seems you will live, Merry."  One of the large hands left his shoulder and traveled before his eyes.  "How many fingers do you see?"

      "Four," Merry managed.  "Now two.  Three – I am all right, Strider."

      "Thank Elbereth for that," the Ranger returned.  "How did you fall into the river?" 

      "I was trying to catch some trout for breakfast," the hobbit replied somewhat crossly, absently trying to stretch out his right arm.  Aragorn caught it before Merry could move.

      "Your arm is broken. Merry.  Don't move it.  It is a clean break of one of the small bones above the wrist.  I will split it and it will heal nicely.  You are missing a good patch of skin on that arm and have bruised ribs, but you were very lucky."

      Elladan joined them; finished with cooling the horses, he had staked their tie-ropes to the ground as there were no bushes on which to fasten their reins.  "I will go back and fetch the rest of our supplies," he offered, his dark eyes on the Man and hobbit.  "Both of you need to dry off and be warm.  Brother, will you build a fire?"

       With a nod, Elrohir rose and began to drag over some of the large pieces of driftwood that littered the shore of this new campsite.  To Merry's gratitude, Aragorn remained seated, holding the hobbit cradled against him.  Someone (the twins, Merry assumed) had wrapped blankets around them both, but he was slowly becoming aware of the discomfort of soaked clothes and his hurts were beginning to clamor for more of his attention.  

       "We need a split for the arm," murmured Aragorn.  "One with a cross-piece to keep the bandages off that scrape."  The Man's hands roamed gently over the injury and Merry gritted his teeth, determined to make no sound.  "Pippin, will you look along the bank and bring me two straight pieces of wood, one shorter than the other, that can be bound together?"

       Reluctant to leave his cousin, Pippin quickly scoured the shore looking for appropriate driftwood.  He found none.  The only pieces of wood available were either too large or too heavy, smaller pieces being swept along in the swift flow of the river.  Returning without finding suitable sticks of wood, Pippin crouched anxiously by Merry's side and tugged on Aragorn's surcoat.

       "I can't find anything, Strider.  We'll have to use something else.  Maybe your long knife and a couple of small stones to hold off the cloth?"

       Aragorn examined the two small round river-stones Pippin had brought.  "No, too heavy, Pippin.  Merry cannot have such weight dragging on that arm.  I do not want to leave the arm unbound, the bone is too likely to shift…"

      "Half a moment," Pippin called.  "I'll be right back!"  Returning to the pile of supplies dumped there upon the rest of the scouting party's arrival, Pippin upended his pack and unceremoniously dumped its entire contents onto the ground.  Aragorn could only see his posterior waving in the air as Pippin knelt and dug into the pile.  Then he saw the little one sit back on his haunches and raise something in triumph.

       "_No_," said Merry.  "Absolutely not.  I would rather lose the arm –"

       "Don't be foolish, Merry," Aragorn said sternly, fighting to control his expression.  "That will work excellently, Pippin.  It is quite hard and yet light.  Meriadoc, hold still.  Hold still!"  Ignoring the hobbit's furious protests, the Ranger bound Pippin's disreputable bread sculpture to Merry's small forearm, laying the length of it against the arm and carefully wrapping the bandages so that the raised section held itself clear of the raw, abraded scrape. 

     Pippin observed this process with great interest, ignoring the continuous stream of groans and mutterings from his older cousin.  "Wait till I tell everyone how useful my sculpture was, Merry!  Won't they all be surprised?  And you wanted me to throw it away!"  Completely mortified, Merry ducked his head and wished he had drowned.

* TBC *   


	23. In Rivendell and in the Wild

(Author's Note:  I'll be off visiting family next week for ten days so I regret there won't be any updates until my return.   Zinc and Bookworm, of course you knew that awful bread sculpture would be put to some use.  Ginger Ninja and Nilmandra, have you noticed how Merry is often the one to suffer from Pip's pranks?  I guess that's what older cousins are for.  Katakanadian, as to what Pip originally intended, I recall the story of one of my teenaged brothers who leaped off the roof and broke his leg.  When asked why on earth he did that, my brother could only reply, "It seemed a good idea at the time."  A Elbereth, I think we underestimate the emotional toll of Weathertop on Frodo.  TrueFan, I'm so glad you got a kick out of that scene.  Lily Baggins, I covet Elrond's map too … that map just belongs in Imladris.  Rose Cotton, Merry's humiliation isn't quite over yet…  My thanks to all of you who are so faithful in reading and reviewing this story.  As shirebound said once, "it makes it all worthwhile.")

Chapter 23:  In Rivendell and in the Wild

       The new morning brought with it a sobering realization.  Outside the glassless windows, birds sang and Imladris' waterfalls roared and foamed in the distance.  Autumn leaves continued their ballet to the ground.  But the hobbit did hear the songs of bird and dancing water, did not see the beauty that surrounded him.  Frodo sat up in bed and pulled in his knees, wrapping his arms about them.  'Ringbearer,' he thought.  'I am to bear this evil thing across the width of Middle-earth.  I am not to allow any other to touch it, save the Company, and then only at great need.  And on the other side of the world, I am perhaps to climb a fire mountain and throw it into the pit from whence it came.'  Across the knees, the small knuckles tightened on each other until they strained white.  The vision of Elrond's beautiful landform map rose in Frodo's mind.  So far.  He hadn't known it was so far.

         And to destroy it…  Unbidden, the Ringbearer's hand rose to cradle the small cold circlet of gold.  Destroy it.  Yes, of course it had to be destroyed.  A great part of the Enemy's power was bound into the Ring.  It was evil.  Of course.  But…  Suddenly Frodo became aware of how tightly his hand clutched the Ring, pressing it to his breast.  With a surge of rage, he clasped it tighter, to tear the silver chain from his throat and cast the vile object from him.  _No!_  He had given his word.  He had promised. 

      "Master?"

      If he were forsworn, who else would step forward in his place?  None of the others would undertake this thing.  Oh yes, they would take _it_ … but it would corrupt them and own them, and they would turn it over to the Enemy.  It would be the end of all hope…

       "Mr. Frodo?"

       The world would be cast into death and darkness, if he failed.  No other could do this and it was so far and he so small…

       A strong hand clasped the hobbit's right shoulder and squeezed tightly.  Frodo raised his clouded gaze to stare into concerned grey eyes, framed by a much-loved round face and sandy hair.  Frodo raised his hand and covered Sam's with it.  "I'm all right, Sam," the Ringbearer whispered.  "I am all right."

* * * * * 

      The Lord of Rivendell had requested that Gandalf join him for breakfast, to discuss pressing matters concerning the Fellowship.  The Elf-lord's fine nostrils arched in distaste as the wizard lifted the cover from one of the steaming dishes and forked several fat sausages onto his plate, sizzling and popping in their own juice.  Fully aware of Elrond's dislike of such fare, Gandalf snorted at the sliced fruit, bread and delicate cheeses that comprised elven breakfasts, pleased to have the opportunity to tweak his old friend's sensibilities.

       "I hope you are feeding Frodo more than fruit and cheese, Elrond," Gandalf said, ostentatiously taking a huge bite of sausage.  "He'll never regain his strength on fare such as that."

       Elrond sliced his apple delicately and took a small bite.  "The Ringbearer grows in strength daily, Gandalf, despite what you insist he eat.  He still needs to put back some weight and his appetite has not improved to my satisfaction.  Nevertheless, I judge him ready to begin his training."

      The wizard paused, another bite of sausage halfway to his mouth.  "With Merry and Pippin gone?" 

       "I am certain that Estel is lessoning them, as occasion provides.  Frodo and Samwise might do better with a few days' start on those younger, more energetic halflings.  I will not have them run him ragged."

       The wizard nodded.  "What more needs to be prepared?"

       Elrond leaned back in his chair to consider, dark eyes thoughtful.  "The young prince of Mirkwood has completed the bows and is now working on a good supply of arrows.  It remains to be seen if the hobbits are able to draw them.  He says he will also teach them knife-work.  The Dwarf has overseen the casting of light amour for them and is personally forging a variety of small weapons, in the hopes that some will suit."  The deep wells of knowledge and memory that were the Elf-lord's eyes warmed for a moment.  "My foundry-master is most pleased to work with a Dwarf.  I think he has already learned much he did not know of metal-work, though he would not say it."  Then the dark, ageless eyes turned serious again.  "Gimli says he must have the little ones here to see which, if any, of the small weapons can be wielded by them."  The Elf-lord sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "I am not hopeful."

       Gandalf grimaced; he harbored his own reservations about teaching the hobbits weapons-work.

       "The Man, Boromir, is ready to teach them the basics of sword-play," Elrond continued.  "He wished to examine their swords but the little ones took them with them.  Boromir has carved several wooden practice swords of various weights, and will begin teaching Frodo and Sam footwork and defense.  He wishes to teach them attack, but I think that is folly."

       Gandalf looked at his old friend intently.  "Folly?  Why?"

       "The halflings would have little chance against a larger, stronger opponent, Gandalf," the Elf-lord said.  "And almost any enemy they face will be larger and stronger.  I do not want them to become over-confident.  Given the choice, they should flee instead of fight."

       "Merry won't like that," commented the wizard.  "There's the making of a warrior in that one.  Most unnatural in a hobbit."

     The Elf-lord did not smile at the wizard's weak jest.  "I hope that those young hobbits will never be forced to defend their cousin, but if it comes to that, they must understand that the Ringbearer's life is to come before theirs."

      Sadly, Gandalf nodded slowly.

* * * * *

        Merry was certain he had not ached so the previous day.  Aragorn had insisted that he drink some powder the Ranger had brought with him in a medicinal kit out of Rivendell, and the resultant tea had rendered the young hobbit groggy and unfocused.  He had slept away the remainder of the day in little awareness.  Well, Merry reflected to himself, at least he had more sympathy for all those vile tonics and teas Elrond kept forcing down Frodo.

       Merry had been ordered to lie still and quiet this morning, and the young hobbit was already bored.  Every bump and bruise the river had given him seemed magnified in the cold morning light, and his arm threatened to stab if he even breathed too deeply.  He glared down at Pippin's humiliating sculpture but he could not fault its support.  The bread sculpture's minimal weight did not aggravate his broken arm yet held it firmly.  Oddly, the scrape hurt worse than the broken bone, did he not move – it burned as if a brand had been held against his skin.  Merry shifted his arm carefully, testing the degree of movement permitted him in the sling Aragorn had devised.  At least all the bandages and the sling hid the shape of the stupid thing.

       He had grown tired of examining the great forest stands that Aragorn had named the northern treeharbors.  Trees were all very well in their place, but he was not allowed to wander among them and any climbing of them was certainly out of the question.  The treeharbors were very different from the Old Forest near his home … the trees were younger and did not seem so hostile.  With a pang that caught him off-guard and tore a choke from his throat, Merry suddenly missed Buckland with every fiber of his being.

       Elladan gave him a sympathetic look as the Elf glided by carrying nose-bags for the horses.  No doubt the Elf thought he'd moved incautiously.  Merry felt no desire to enlighten Elladan that he was homesick.  Furiously scrubbing at his eyes with his good hand, the hobbit forced his thoughts back to the present.  Or, more accurately, the previous day.

        After Merry and Aragorn had dried off and Merry's hurts attended, the hobbit had insisted on thanking Inmara personally.  He had stood (with Pippin's help) and gone to stand before her, thanking her formally with all the bearing and courtesy taught him as the future Master of Buckland.  The wise old mare had listened to him graciously, her delicate pointed ears forward, then lowered her head and gently, very gently, butted him in the chest.

       Aragorn had decided against sending her home, though the hobbits would ride with he and Elladan and Elrohir.  With one of their number hurt, the Ranger would not lose so valuable a resource to the scouting party.  Merry suspected that Aragorn feared they might need the old mare for a travois, should one of them be injured beyond the ability to ride.  Inmara knew the pulling of such a stretcher, as the stallions of Elrond's sons and Aragorn's gelding did not.

       "Merry!  Look, Merry!  Aragorn taught me to make a snare!  I caught a rabbit!"  Pippin bounced into camp with the Ranger not far behind, hiding a smile on his stern features.   The tweenager waved the limp, furry form under his cousin's nose and Merry had to fight back a sneeze.

      "He did very well," the Ranger said, and Pippin's sharp face lit with pride.

      "Don't worry about not helping with the hunting, Merry," the youngster assured his older cousin, "I'll take care of catching dinner from now on!"  Pippin's countenance dimmed slightly when Elladan handed him the skinning knife and silently pointed at the cookpot, already simmering over the fire.

       The Ranger's amused eyes regarded the young hobbit.  "Another lesson in living in the Wild, Pippin.  If you catch it … _you_ cook it."

       Merry smiled and congratulated his cousin, his eyes on Aragorn as the Man drifted over to Elladan.  The two were standing with heads close together, turned away from the hobbits.  With the ease of long practice, Merry tuned out Pippin's chattering explanation of the fashioning and laying of a snare as he struggled to overhear the soft conversation.  Aragorn was measuring something with his hands and Elladan nodded, both of their faces dark.   If he leaned back a little, the slight breeze might just carry their words to him…

       "Elrohir has not returned yet?" Aragorn was asking.

       "No, Estel.  If he too found evidence of large numbers of marching Men, he may have tracked them farther."

        "I would wish that he spoke to me before setting out on more than a day's ride.   The sign that I saw was not of ordered companies, but rag-tag groups of ill-trained men.  They marched not together but in stumbling groups, casting aside gear as it burdened them, soiling the earth on which they walked.  Yet they moved at a swift pace, and there were very many of them."

       "Could you tell their destination?  Isengard, or further East?"

       "I could not tell without trailing them for many leagues.  Recruiters from both towers have moved among the malcontents and criminals and layabouts of the towns and cities of Men, promising gold in return for service.  There are many such who would sell their allegiance in return for the spoils of war; gold, plunder and women.   Such as these may serve to weaken and weary us while trained and competent troops ready themselves."

      "A dark assessment, brother."

      "Dark times, brother."

       For Merry, the day passed slowly.  His arm and the bruises on his ribs set up a steady throbbing ache that exhausted him and Aragorn made him drink another cup of the vile tea.  Pippin set snares about the entire camp and walked into one himself, prompting a shrill, stifled shriek that woke Merry out of what little rest he had managed to win.  Brusquely, Aragorn ordered the tweenager to disarm the snares.

       Despite the slowness of his thoughts, Merry did not fail to notice that at least one of the Big Folk stayed in camp at all times.  His face burned to think that he and Pippin were being guarded, that his injury had made them a burden to Aragorn and the twins.  Instead of carrying their weight on this trip, he and Pippin had become a weight, holding the others back from the work they needed to do.

       Elladan rode out sometime during that indeterminable day and came back after many hours, his fair features set and strained.  Both the Elf and the Man took to standing at the place Elrohir had ridden from, shading their eyes with their hands and staring into the distance.  But Elrohir did not return.  Twilight darkened into evening, and the stars shone like scattered diamonds on the blanket of night.  Elrohir did not return.

 * TBC *


	24. Mysteries and Accidents

(Author's Note:  Instead of my usual thanks and acknowledgements, this is a plea for HELP!  I have been unable to post reviews since January 6, and am hoping someone can tell me if this has happened to them and what they did to correct it.  Clicking on the "Go" button of "Submit a Review" does nothing.  I don't want shirebound and FBoBE and Lily and Claudia and Elwen and Oselle and all my favorite writers to think I'm not reading and enjoying their work – I am!  I've tried installing the IE 6.1 service patch, clearing my cookies and temp Internet files and everything I can think of.  I e-mailed FanFiction.Net to inform them of a support problem but who knows when/if they will respond?  I was hoping this problem would clear up while I was gone (and found out it works from my cousin's computer), but it hasn't.  Please, can anyone help me?)

Chapter 24:  Mysteries and Accidents

      Frodo edged back warily, hoping that Sam did not notice.  Sam did not.  Even that automatic part of his mind that kept track of his master's movements was focused on this effort.  Sweat beaded in Samwise's sandy hair and ran down into his eyes.  Back straining, Sam felt like his arms were being torn from their sockets.  His fingers had gone totally numb, passing through one side of pain and out the other.

      Frodo winced in sympathy.  He had tried the bow first, gritting his teeth against the immediate agony in his shoulder.  Lord Elrond had appeared from nowhere and ordered him to put it down, saying his healing wound could not yet stand such strain.  Legolas had agreed with the Elf-lord, and the bow had been passed to an apprehensive Sam.

       Rolling his shoulder, Frodo had stepped back to stand by the two Elves.  The Elf-lord had required him to remove his cloak and jacket, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and eased back the shirt to examine the wound.  Blood pulsed beneath the ugly livid scar but it had not torn open.  Frodo sighed in relief as Elrond's cool hands stroked over the wound, reducing the ache with only his touch.  "You were fortunate, Master Frodo," Elrond said, his dark eyes relieved.  "For this day and two more, you will not attempt the bow."

        The small party of Elves and hobbits stood in one of the many forest clearings of Imladris, surrounded by trees brilliant in their autumn glory.  Rays of sun sparkled through the thick foliage and highlighted leaves of crimson and gold, turning the small clearing into a montage of color.  A small stream meandered past, collecting more sparkles from the sun and reflecting them back into the leafy boughs.  A rough hay-stuffed sack had been placed in the near distance, this their intended target.  Though there were fine archers among hobbits, hobbits hunted nothing for sport that lived.  Only once in their long history had had they taken up bows for war.  Long, long ago the Shirefolk had sent a company of bowhobbits to Fornost to join the battle against the Witch-lord of Angmar … but no annuals of Men recorded it and few now remembered it.

       These thoughts were passing through the Ringbearer's mind as he watched Sam struggle to hold his stance, to keep his back straight and his arms stiff as the Wood-elf demanded.  Legolas had refused to let them shoot; first, he said, they must learn the discipline required to simply hold the weapon.  Frodo stooped and picked up another of the four bows the Wood-elf had carved, admiring the white wood of their make and the delicate yet strong frame.  The nocked ends were tipped with silver and a faint pattern of leaves and winding branches were carved up their length.

       Frodo had never handled a bow, nor had Merry or Pippin.  Gentlehobbits generally did not, as those of gentle birth did not do the manual labor of hunting.  Such work was for the lower classes.  Sam was starting to tremble now, his bow arm jumping despite his resolution to hold it still.  Seeing this, the Wood-elf relented.

      "Very good, Master Samwise," Legolas said.  "You may relax your pull.  Slowly now – _no!"  _With a groan of relief, Sam had dropped his stance and released the bowstring.  With the recoil of a striking snake, the taut string snapped against the unprotected forearm with all the violence of a whiplash.

        Sam howled and dropped the bow, dancing around in a circle with his other hand clamped around the welt.  "Shumpt_!_  Argghhrah!  _Ow!"_ the sturdy hobbit yowled, struggling to stifle the invectives that rose to his lips as he hopped up and down, tears starting from his eyes at the agonizing pain.

       "Sam!  Sam, are you all right?"  Frodo caught the injured arm and afraid of blundering into his master, Sam fought to control himself.  Lord Elrond took advantage of Sam's relative stillness to peel back the hobbit's sleeve and examine the brilliantly-red and rapidly rising welt, bruising forming in just the seconds that had passed.

       "Legolas, would you please dip Samwise's cloak in the stream and wrap it around his arm?" the Elf-lord asked, his gentle but commanding voice easily overriding Sam's gasps and Frodo's comforting murmurs.  The Elf complied quickly and Sam groaned in relief as the cloak, icy from the snow-borne waters, was wrapped around the injury.

       "Sorry, master.  Sorry Legolas, Lord Elrond.  Me arm's much better now," Sam growled when he had regained the use of his voice.

       "It is my fault, Master Samwise," the Wood-Elf said worriedly, his clear eyes crinkled and worried as he examined the welt.  "I should have told you beforehand what would happen should you simply drop your stance.  Are you certain you are not injured?"

       Sam was not at all certain, but the pain was dropping to manageable levels and was being replaced by embarrassment.  "Not your fault, sir," he gasped.  "I should have known.  Me older brother uses a bow, but I never have.  Just didn't think, I guess."

       Frodo hung by his side anxiously, still grasping the injured arm, and the cloak was dripping icy water on them both.  "That is enough bow-practice for today," the Elf-lord informed them sternly.  "Please go and dry yourselves before you catch cold.  Master Samwise, I will be by shortly to administer a poultice.  Keep that cloak around your arm until I arrive."

         Red-faced, Sam allowed Frodo to pull him away.  Despite his dismay at the morning's unfortunate turn of events, the Elf-lord's dark eyes warmed with amusement to see the slight figure of the Ringbearer sheparding his sturdy friend, alternating between concerned scoldings and worriedentreaties**, **as the two disappeared into the House.

* * * * * 

       "Are we going to go look for him?" Merry asked, his blue eyes seeking Aragorn's as the Man leaned over him to check his broken arm.   The Ranger did not reply immediately, taking his time in examining the break.  At last he carefully laid Pippin's hated sculpture along the limb and rewrapped the bandages, letting the petrified dough take the stress of holding the arm straight.

       "Hobbits heal very quickly, it seems," Aragorn replied.  "Your arm is coming along nicely, Merry.  The scrape has scabbed over.  Does it ache much?"

        "Not nearly as much as yesterday.  Aragorn, what about Elrohir?"

       Seeing that the hobbit would not be put off, Aragorn sighed and sank down on his knees.  Pippin crouched by his side, monitoring the Man's inspection and adding his own somewhat unhelpful comments.  Now the youngster looked anxiously between his elders and turned worried eyes to Elladan, who was silently brushing the horses, the only sign of his fear for his missing twin the unnatural woodenness of movement that had replaced his usual fluid grace.

       "_We_ are not," Aragorn replied at length.  "Elladan and I will go.  You and Pippin will stay here and wait for us."

       "Aragorn, no," both protested, but the Man overrode them.  "Merry, that arm may not hurt much now, but a few hours of riding will make it ache unbearably.  No, no jostling for another few days."

       "But -"

       "_No_, Merry.  You would only slow us."  The Ranger hid his regret at the flinch of pain in the young halfling's eyes.  "We might have to ride fast and hard.  You two are not yet hardened to the saddle.  I am sorry, but you must stay here."

       Pippin would have argued further, but Merry laid his good hand on his cousin's arm and hushed him.  "Strider's right, Pip.  We … we will stay here."

      With a nod, Aragorn rose and went to Elladan, helping the Elf pack the horses.  His own gelding snorted and sought to catch his master's sleeve, the tension in the camp evident even to the animals.  Inmara was staked next to the gelding, ears pricked forward as she listened to the exchange.  Aragorn paused before swinging himself up into the saddle, his eyes on the two young halflings.

       "Pippin," he said seriously, "take care of Merry.  Don't let him use that arm.  If we do not return tonight, do not be concerned.  If we do not return by tomorrow's eve, you two are to return to Rivendell.  Inmara knows the way.  Do you understand?"

      The two glanced at each other and this time, Pippin replied for them both.  "Yes, Strider, we understand.  What are we to tell Lord Elrond if we return without you?"

      The Ranger was silent for a moment.  "Tell him we are tracking Elrohir, and we three will return as soon as we may.  Tell him we have found sign of many Men moving East, companies of ill-trained, ill-equipped service-for-hire mercenaries.  No sign of Orcs, contrary to previous reports.  He will need to know this." 

       Pippin and Merry climbed forlornly to their feet and stood by Inmara as they watched the Man and the Elf ride off.   Inmara stood silently at the end of her tie-line, great soft brown eyes alert as she watched them leave.  Merry sighed deeply and wrapped his good arm around Pippin.  Both felt a warm nose gently tickling their curls as the wise old mare gave them comfort in her own manner.  

* * * * *

       Two hours later, Aragorn crouched on the grassy slope and ran his hands over the faint marks of a shod horse, a day old.  The Ranger had picked up Elrohir's trail not far from the riverbank, and followed it along the swift water since.  Elladan, still mounted, watched as his foster-brother bent his nose to within inches of the hoof-marks, then rocked back on his heels to shade his eyes with a hand and stare off into the distance. 

     "The tracks start to lengthen here," Aragorn mused, his voice almost inaudible but well within the range of elven-hearing.  "See how the distance between the forward and rear hooves increases?  The rear hooves are deeper … more weight is placed on his haunches as the stallion gathers himself to run.  Elrohir kicked his horse into a gallop."  The Ranger rose, his mien puzzled and blue-grey eyes searching.  "What did he see that prompted such urgency?   He would never mistreat his stallion without great need.  What was he doing?"

       Elladan had no answers for him.  For a moment the two stared at each other, then Aragorn swung himself upon his gelding's back and the two broke into a trot, the Ranger leaning over his horse's flanks, eyes on the ground, following the marks of desperate haste.

* * * * *

        "Better now, lad?"  Bilbo's brown eyes were concerned and Sam felt warmed and yet embarrassed by the old hobbit's concern.  He nodded wordlessly; he wasn't used to having both his master and Mr. Bilbo fuss over him, and it didn't feel right.  The Master of Rivendell hid a smile at the young gardener's discomfort, ageless eyes carefully dispassionate as he bound the herbal bandage to the angry-looking welt.  Though not serious, the injury would be painful for several days.  The icy water had cooled the fierce burning and Sam released a final breath, letting the pain wash from him as the virtue of the herbs took effect.

         "Aye, sir, much better.  Thank you, Lord Elrond."  Sam lifted his arm and examined the bandaged-wrapped limb, his face tightening as the skin pulled when he rotated the forearm.  "I feel right stupid, lettin' the bowstring catch me like that."

       The Elf-lord nodded and gathered up his medicinal supplies.  "We should have taken into account your unfamiliarity with such weapons, young hobbit.  Now that we are forewarned, I am sure that Legolas will explain the techniques more fully as he teaches you knife-work."

      "Knife-work?" echoed three hobbit voices.

      The Elf-lord raised dark eyes to regard them.  "Legolas and Glorfindel will instruct you.  Will two hours after midday at the practice-ground be convenient?"

       Frodo and Sam nodded, momentarily wordless.  The Elf-lord returned their nod and rose, honoring them with a short bow before departing.  The three sat in silence for some minutes, Sam absently fingering the poultice, the sweet smell of orris root clinging to his fingers. 

         "A fine mess we got ourselves inta, Mr. Frodo," he muttered, leaning back.  "A fine mess."

* * * * * 

        Aragorn swung down off his gelding at a small eddy along the riverbank, Elladan pulling up silently beside him.  The ground was churned here, horse-hoofs mingling with the lighter track of booted feet.  But it was not the telltale signs of a rider that had first captured the Ranger's attention.  Something dark bobbed in the current there, half-submerged, caught by the pressure of the water and forced close to shore.  Dark fabric ballooned on the shimmering surface of the water, its color darkened almost to black by the icy flow.   Exchanging a glance of dread with his foster-brother, Aragorn waded into the numbing waters and buried his hands in the thick cloak that drifted entangled in the river.

* TBC *


	25. An Old Hobbit's Wisdom

(Author's Note:  Thanks to everyone who had suggestions to correct my reviewing problem; hopefully Fanfiction.net can figure out why the darn "Go" button isn't working.  Tathar, your reassurance made me feel better.  [And you are right; I hunted with a 32-lb Bearcat and the description of the bowstring welt is drawn from painful experience.]  Not being able to review is so frustrating – I can't even say "thank you" to shirebound for the new story and to Elwen for the updates, and everyone else!   Nilmandra, it might be the browser security - I will follow up on that.  Claudia, I tried logging in and out [sigh].  Thank you for your intelligent comment on hobbit learning curves – it's good to remember that there are bound to be accidents the first time someone tries something new.  I Know Kung-Fu, thanks!  QTPie-2488, your faithful reviews are much appreciated, as well as letting me know what you'd like to see.  Marion, that information on the expectations of gentle birth were drawn from _How Would You Survive in the Middle Ages_ by Fiona MacDonald and _The Civilization of the Middle Ages_ by Norman F. Cantor.  Rose Cotton, your warm 'welcome back' is appreciated.  Wren aka scooter, thanks!  Vana Burke, your review was _not_ cheesy – I value it.  Katakandian, that "girly shriek" of Pippin's was just what I had in mind writing that scene and I am so tickled you picked up on it.  Eriks-lil-rocker, you encourage me.  I am relieved that the majority of you are pleased with the darker turn the story is now taking … _LotRs_ isn't a story of lightness and joy, though of course those elements are there.  I feel it is more a tale of bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, the courage and honor of the individual, and the ultimate triumph of good.  Thank you, everyone, for your continued encouragement and support.)

Chapter 25: An Old Hobbit's Wisdom

          Luncheon was a subdued affair, the hobbits preferring trays to joining the rest of Rivendell when the chimes rang.  Sam's welt had receded somewhat and a large, blood-laced bruise was taking its place.  He kept peeking under the bandage to chart the growing bruise's progress.  Frodo watched him anxiously and offered repeatedly to help him cut up his food, which embarrassed the poor hobbit mightily.

         Bilbo stayed with them after lunch instead of departing for his usual afternoon nap, his brown eyes introspective as he watched his nephew rubbing his shoulder and Sam favoring his arm.  Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, the old hobbit trailed after them as Frodo and Sam dragged themselves to their feet to meet Legolas and Glorfindel at the practice-ground for their first knife-fighting lesson.

       The Elves had arrived before them and upon a cloth on the ground was spread a variety of sharp-bladed knives, ranging from stilettos to leaf-bladed daggers.  There was even a small bodice-dagger, made to fit discretely into a lady's undergarment that Legolas had obtained from somewhere.  (Bilbo reminded himself to ask the Wood-elf about that later.)  Looking over the glittering display, the old hobbit understood that Legolas and Glorfindel had collected many knives in the hopes that one or two would suit.  Frodo and Samwise looked at the array silently, but Bilbo saw apprehension dawn in their eyes.

        Lord Elrond was also present, sitting at his ease on a small folding chair and sorting through a medical kit, several rolls of bandages at his feet.  Bilbo exchanged a smile with his old friend and went to join him, lowering himself stiffly at the Elf-lord's side.  Bilbo observed that Frodo's naturally fair complexion went a shade paler as he took in the needles and stitching-thread that Elrond held in preparation.

         "Ready, then?"  Glorfindel smiled to relax the two, but Frodo and Sam did not seem reassured.  "First, let me explain the basics to you.  If you must defend yourself with a knife, the goal is not to kill your opponent but to cripple him so that you may make your escape."

       The Elf selected a long knife from the cloth and held it before him, low and centered before his body.  One foot behind him in almost a fencer's stance, he demonstrated the proper moves, shifting with a grace that the hobbits could not aspire to.  Then the two hobbits each chose a knife and sought to imitate him. 

       "No, Sam.  Turn the blade so that it enters the body horizontally.  A vertical thrust might result in the blade catching on your enemy's ribs, possibly grounding the knife and preventing its removal."  Sam tried again, a quick thrust-and-withdraw with the blade flat.  Glorfindel nodded his approval.  "Good.  Now keep that up, remembering to extend your arm and keep your body out of reach."

       Frodo was doing well under Legolas' tutelage.  The Ringbearer quickly grasped his instructions and instinctively understood the steps that kept a knife-fight such a blur of motion.  Close kin to a dance, such a fight required attributes that Frodo already possessed; speed, sure-footedness, the ability to think quickly and bravery.  

      Yet all, including the two trainees, could see that it would ever be an unequal contest.  Though both Frodo and Sam learned rapidly, their speed and natural agility could not compensate for their short reaches.  What good quickness if they could not get within scoring distance?

       Their instructors saw it also.  Legolas shook his head, perspiration barely dampening his fair face.  "You folk must not seek to close with an enemy.  A quick strike and escape is your only hope.  If followed, strike again and again.  Perhaps blood-loss will weaken your opponent."

       "This isn't working, Elrond," Bilbo said quietly over the thuds and pants of the dueling pairs.  The Elves were very careful of their small students, their attention ever on keeping the sharp blades away from unprotected flesh.  Watching them, the old hobbit shook his gray head as Sam slipped, his hairy toes digging into the soft earth for balance.  Glorfindel caught his arm and steadied him, and both took a moment to regain their breath.  "Hobbits aren't warriors.  We never were."

       "Yet what else can we do, old friend?  Those young ones must survive this Quest, if Middle-earth is not to be given over into darkness."  The Elf-lord's dark eyes were strained as he followed the action before him.  Both watchers' eyes were drawn to Sam as the hobbit took a short cut along the hand, gasping as the red line spread and began to drip.  Glorfindel instantly lowered his knife and clasped his hand around the small wound, applying pressure while Sam gritted his teeth.

        Bilbo was silent for a moment, seeking to voice the thoughts that had been growing in his mind.  "Frodo must depend on you Big Folk to defend him.  I agree that there are things my lad must learn, but not this, Elrond, not killing…"

      The Elf-lord's deep eyes moved to the old hobbit.  "And would you have them unable to defend themselves?"

      Bilbo bridled slightly.  "Hobbits aren't defenseless, Elrond.  We've taken care of ourselves for a long time.  But this way of fighting … it isn't _our_ way.  Let Frodo and the Sam show you our way of fighting."

       Elrond's dark brows raised.  "Very well, my friend.  Proceed."

       "That's enough, lads!"  Bilbo struggled to his feet, his call halting the practice.  The two Elves looked to him, as did the hobbits.  Sam shook his hand, the small cut stinging but of little consequence.

       "Frodo, my lad, I was just telling Elrond about our ways.  Sam, would you please run back to Frodo's rooms and fetch your slings?"  Sam did, a grin sparkling in his grey eyes as he returned.  Wordlessly, he handed Frodo's to him and ran his hands over the familiar wood of his.

       "Slings are very practical, Elrond," Bilbo continued.   "Arrows break, warp, get lost and have to be made.  Stones are everywhere.  Not that we really need slings…  Show him, Sam-lad."

      "See that little rock over there, sir?  The one broken in half?  Will the left side suit?"

      "Admirably, Sam.  Fire away."

       In an amazingly quick movement, Sam stooped and selected a stone.  A small shower of dust erupted from the left side of the halved stone as a 'ping' rang out at the same moment.

      Bilbo nodded, satisfied.  "Now you, Frodo.  Take that hanging branch off that tree there."  

      Elrond followed the old hobbit's pointing finger.  "Bilbo, that is too far.  You would need an arrow –"

      With a sharp _crack!_ the broken branch swung violently and dropped to the earth.  The Elves had not even seen the stone fly.  Frodo smiled and lowered the sling.

      "A small, sharp stone thrown with such force can be a weapon in itself," Bilbo continued in a lecturing tone to the astonished Elves.  "If any hobbit stoops for a stone, it is well to get quickly under cover, as all trespassing beasts know very well.  We may not be as enamored of weapons of war as Men – and Elves – are, but hobbits can take care of themselves.  We have had to fight to maintain ourselves in a hard world," the old hobbit continued in a softer voice, "but no hobbit will seek out battle."

        Bilbo reached out and took the long knife from Frodo's grasp, the younger hobbit surrendering it to him carefully.  Bilbo turned it over in his hands, his old eyes sorrowful.   "We've never sought glory in war or dominion over others.  The green fields are enough for us, the warm sun … the smell of pipe-weed drifting on the evening breeze."  Bilbo raised his eyes to the Elf-lord's, tears suddenly brimming in those earth-brown orbs.  "All the things that we are not, you are trying to force these lads to be.  Let them be hobbits, Elrond.  It is what will carry them through this Quest."

        The immortal Elf-lord looked down at the small figures before him.  Glorfindel and Legolas were silent.  Frodo raised his morning glory eyes to the dark eyes of Elrond, and what he saw there made the Elf-lord nod slowly.  "You are right, old friend," the Elf-lord said softly.  "From now on they will learn survival skills, no longer the giving of death.  Let us hope that it will be enough."

* * * * *   

        Far to the north, Aragorn struggled to wind the floating fabric around his hands, the cloak fighting him, still caught by the snags and swift current of the river.  With a jerk, he freed the cloak and it lifted in his hands, attached to nothing.  Behind him, Elladan choked back an explosive cry of relief.

        The Ranger carried the dripping cloak to shore and the Elf took it from his hands and shook it out.  "Too small to be Elrohir's…" Aragorn said.  "This must be Merry's, the one he lost in the river when he tried to trap those fish.  We can return it to him, at least."

       "But not in any condition he might want," Elladan commented and raised the cloak up for his foster-brother to see.  Long slashes rent the thick wool, almost shredding the fabric in places.

       Aragorn pushed his hand through one and gathered the edges, puzzled by the damage.  "Even catching on the rocks would not cause this.  These slashes look like they were made by a knife…  Look, here and here – surely these are knife-thrusts."   The Ranger's eyes returned to the churned earth on the bank.  "This cloak was slashed to ribbons, then thrown back into the water.  Why?"

       Backing up, Aragorn carefully placed his feet in the prints he had made entering the water.  Elladan squeezed out of the cloak and bundled it behind his steed's saddle, then remounted to remove himself from the Ranger's area of work.  The stallion's hindquarters bunched as icy droplets of water streamed down the sleek hide, then relaxed under the Elf's gentle hands and murmured voice.

       Aragorn turned at the edge of the churned ground and crouched, balancing himself on his fingertips as he leaned over the hoof-marks and tracks of booted feet.  For a long time he studied the soft earth, occasionally reaching out to move a stone or lay a palm into one of the indentations.  Elladan was silent, knowing from long experience not to interrupt or distract him.

       At last the Ranger straightened, sighing as he rubbed the small of his back.  Elladan could remain quiet no longer.  "Well?" he asked, his clear voice reflecting the tension evident in his stiff, unyielding form.

      "Not Elrohir," Aragorn replied softly.  "His trail must have taken a turn further back.  This rider…"  His fingers traced the outline of hoof-print, the imprint of a furrier's nail. The nail did not anchor the horseshoe to the hoof, but had been driven from the side of the hoof through the animal's flesh into the shoe.  

      "What?" Elladan pressed, when his foster-brother fell silent.

      "Only eight were found," the Ranger continued softly, as if speaking to himself.  "The water did not give up the ninth."

      "The ninth what?"  Elladan pressed again, an edge of impatience in his voice.

      "Black Rider," Aragorn said, his words soft and strained.  "This was a Nazgûl's mount."

* TBC *


	26. Frustrations and Fears

(Author's Note:  For Nilmandra, Coriandra and Leah Beth, we catch up with Elrohir now.   Jay of Lasgelen, relax!  I would never kill off one of the Professor's characters … but I might hurt him a lot.  Rose Cotton, you asked for Elrohir's POV – here you are.  Leigh S. Duran, my thanks.  QTPie-2488 and Firiel, thank you for the assurances that this story is still holding your interest; I was wondering if people are getting tired of it and perhaps it was time to wrap it up.  Obelia Medusa, I agree with your comment about hobbits.  Eriks-lil-rocker, your saying you could 'see it playing out in your mind' is one of the highest compliments.  Lily Baggins, if you like 'hunted hobbits,' you will love what's coming soon.  Elwen, your review was a hoot.  Tathar, thank you for reviewing.  My thanks, everyone, for your reviews and continued support of this story.)

Chapter 26:   Frustrations and Fears 

       "Meerrrrrry, I'm bored," sang a familiar voice in the young hobbit's ear.

       Meriadoc opened his eyes and regarded his cousin's sharp, dissatisfied face, green-gold eyes hovering over him.  "Why don't you take an inventory of the supplies Aragorn and Elladan left us?"

       "Did that."

       "Restock the firewood."

       "Did that."

       "Wash your face in the stream."

       "Did -" Pippin eyed him narrowly.  "Very funny, Merry."

       "Why don't you set some more snares?  We could use the meat."

        The tweenager considered this.  "All right."  Pippin rose and gathered up the thin, tensile wires and stout twine.

       "Remember where you put them this time!"  Merry called after his retreating back.  That accomplished, Meriadoc yawned, closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

* * * * *    

     Happy to be given gainful employment, Pippin checked that his snares were securely tucked into his pockets and began to look for likely sites.  Aragorn had taught him that the trick to setting a successful snare was placing it where the coney was likely to step.  A sheltered place, camouflaged by leaves…  He decided to set them farther from camp this time, where they would be less of danger to the scouting party (and himself).  Wouldn't Aragorn and the twins be surprised when he and Merry presented them with a nice, savory rabbit stew?

      Aragorn and Elladan and Elrohir…   The Elves still seemed a thing out of legend to the young hobbit, despite the month he had spent among them.  The sons and daughter of Lord Elrond not the least.  A slow, silly smile blossomed on his sharp face as his thoughts turned to Arwen Evenstar.  What beauty he'd never seen or imagined in living thing.  

      Wistfully, Pippin allowed himself to imagine himself in Aragorn's place.  _He'd _certainly win a kingdom for her, if she wanted one.  Drawing his small sword, he poked a gorse bush that looked to doubt his ability to do so.   Errand forgotten, the young hobbit meandered along the forest paths, constructing grandiose scenarios in his mind in which he proved himself the hero to an awed and appreciative Arwen.  Well aware that he was constructing fantasies that had no grounding in reality, Pippin indulged himself in melancholy dreams of adoration.  He'd lay piles of Orc heads at her slender feet.  He'd heap treasure upon her, though no glitter of gems could equal the sparkle of her sapphire eyes.  The finest alabaster could never rival her perfect skin.  The moonlit gleam of _mithrel_ was not more beautiful than the stars in her eyes.  Perhaps she'd be so pleased that she would cup his face in her long hands and bestow a kiss upon his brow… 

        As much as he was enjoying his fantasy, Pippin did not neglect the blazing of trees along his path.  Merry and his father would tan his hide if he ever forgot such a simple deterrent to getting lost.  Cutting another small mark in the wood and stripping back the bark to reveal the white core, Pippin wondered if that could be what had happened to Elrohir.  Could the Elf simply have become lost, and was even now making his way back to them?  Somehow, Pippin did not think so.  

       His mood somber now, Pippin stopped and carefully cut another blaze into the tree he had just passed.  One lost one was enough.

        But it was impossible for the young hobbit to remain solemn for long.  Singing to himself under his breath, Pippin chose another leafy bower for a snare and carefully racked aside the soft earth.  "If I were a coney," he thought, "this is right where I'd like to take a rest."

        Switching to a soft hum to avoid alerting any wildlife in the area, Pippin squatted down and began to fashion the snare.  Almost an hour and several snares later, Pippin straightened up and stretched out his short arms, shaking his hands to relieve his fingers of the tension of pulling the wires taut.  He froze into sudden, desperate stillness at the sound of voices.

        Rough voices, coming closer.  Men, he thought.  Quick as thought, the tweenager slipped into the underbrush, his small form barely stirring the branches.  Pippin curled into a small a ball as he could and pulled his cloak around him, drawing up his hood.  The crimson wool blended well with the autumn colors about him.  Controlling his breaths, Pippin tried to pretend he wasn't there.

       "…this way," he heard.  "See how low the blazes are on them trees?  Must be 'obbits."

      "Then they've probably not got anything worth takin'," another coarse voice replied.

      "They've fresh food at least, ta judge by the woodsmoke we saw earlier.  I'm right sick o' dried rations and moldy bread.  You'd think this wizard Saruman could afford ta feed his troops better."

      Pippin pressed himself further into the thick foliage as three pairs of dirty boots came into view.  From his vantage point, they looked enormous.  The boots stopped bare feet from him.  "Pass on," he begged them silently.  "Pass on and leave us in peace."

        "C'mon, then," said the first harsh voice.  "Let's find the halflings an' take what they've got afore the others beat us to them."

       Pippin watched as the Men tramped on, following the trail of blazes he had cut so meticulously into the wood.

* * * * * 

       Leagues north and east from where Aragorn and his twin stared in horror at the hoof prints of a Nazgûl mount imprinted into the sandy shore of the riverbank, Elrohir caught another branch of the great oak in which he crouched and pulled himself up higher into the tree.  The great hosts of Men spread beneath him were as yet unaware of his presence and the Elf absolutely wished to keep it that way.  Stifling a sigh, Elrohir tried to ease his cramping legs by stretching each one out without disturbing the thick canopy of leaves.

        'There must be thousands,' the Elf thought to himself, his dark eyes roving over the assembled companies.  He had picked up their trail leagues away, their third day out on this ill-fated scouting trip, the day after they had almost lost Meriadoc to the frigid waters.  Elrohir wished he knew how the little one was doing.  

       Elrohir dwelled regretfully for a moment on the pain his absence must be causing his twin and foster-brother.  There had been no time to warn them, no time to backtrack and advise them of the advancing horde of mercenaries.  He had seen first them in the distance, a dark blot on the horizon, and had spurred his stallion to pull ahead of them and gather the information for which they had been sent, then circle to the side and report back to Aragorn.  But their numbers had defeated him.  Instead of observing and then extricating himself, he had been trapped by another company of Men marching parallel to the first.  He had been pushed before them, farther and farther from their camp, unable to gather the intelligence that his lord father needed.

      It was then that he had spied the great oak.  There had been no time to think of a better plan.  Elrohir had swung off his horse and slapped the animal on the rump to send it off, knowing it would not allow itself to be caught and would return at his whistle.  With the quickness of his Golden Wood kin, he had caught a branch and lifted himself into the tree, hidden quickly by the leaves.   From this high vantage point, he could estimate the number of troops, catalog their equipment and arms, survey their training and preparedness and perhaps discover their allegiance and destination.

      Then the fates had turned against him.  Treed like a cat with barking dogs below it, the Elf had watched in horror and disgust as the Men choose the great oak as the center of their campsite.  The hosts had set up their cook fires and spread out their bedrolls and were taking their ease, unaware of the Elf that fumed and cursed them silently from above their heads.

      Now thousands of dirty, ill-kept Men sprawled below him.  They looked to be taking advantage of the great tree's shade to rest and repair their gear and ready themselves for the onward march.  Elrohir had estimated their numbers and disdainfully had readied his report, should these louts ever depart and allow him to deliver it.  As they had done increasingly as the night passed and the day wore on, the Elf's thoughts returned to Elladan and Estel and the little ones, and he prayed that they were well.

* * * * * 

        Aragorn rose and shook the clinging sand from his fingers, glad that his touch had erased the foul track.  In a sudden movement, he kicked at the remaining Nazgûl hoof prints, wiping them from the face of the clean earth.

       "You must return to the hobbits," he said to Elladan, who watched white-faced from the back of his tall stallion.  "They must not be left alone now, especially with Merry hurt.  I will follow the Black Rider's trail and see if I may discern its intent."

       "What of Elrohir?"  Acceptance of the Ranger's orders could not allay the fear in the Elf's voice.  

      "We do not know that Elrohir has fallen afoul of some evil action," Aragorn replied slowly, reluctantly.  "Let us hope that he is merely delayed and will return to us.  But this takes precedence.  I fear that the Black Rider is tracking hobbits … whether it seeks the Ringbearer - or any hobbit - we cannot know.  But I fear for Merry and Pippin."

       "Shall I bring them?  Or should I take them back to Imladris?" asked Elrohir, his dark eyes worried.  

       "No …. no.  Merry should not ride yet.  It would not be dangerous for him, but would cause him unnecessary pain.  It is better that you stay with them until I return to you.  And if Elrohir returns, he will know where the campsite is."

       "But Father must know of this, Estel.  A Nazgûl, here…  What if it does seek the Ringbearer?  Frodo is unguarded."

         "I do not know what to do, my brother."  Aragorn's deep eyes reflected the pain in his heart.  "I dare not send the hobbits back, Merry hurt or no.  You cannot be spared to escort them.  What if it came upon them, all alone and no help in sight?  I dare not take that risk."

       "And what if it seeks the Ringbearer?  What then?"

      The Ranger was silent.  At last he said, "We must trust to luck.  Go back to them, my brother, and guard them.  I will return as soon as I may."

      Elladan nodded slowly.  "Let us hope you have made the right choice, my brother."

* * * * * 

       In the Last Homely House, the Ringbearer dozed before a fire that burned brightly in the hearth   of his rooms.  Frodo had had an active day and had gratefully accepted Sam's proposal of a bath.  Unaccustomed to exercising his stiff left shoulder and arm, they ached abominably and the hot water had eased much of his pain.  Sam watched as Frodo indignantly refused Bilbo's suggestion of a nap.  Frodo had called upon Sam to affirm that he had heard Bilbo's promise not to force naps upon his master, and settled rather huffily into the chair.

       The old hobbit had merely raised his eyebrows at his nephew and smiled as Frodo dropped off to sleep in spite of himself.  Then the elderly hobbit had pulled up another chair to the fire and taken his own rest.  Sam pottered about contentedly (but quietly) as they slept, clearing up the bath and putting things to right.  

        Thinking about the day's lessons in archery and knife-fighting, Sam found that he was of two minds about Lord Elrond's decision not to force the learning of killing upon the hobbits.  He agreed with old Mr. Bilbo – hobbits were not made for fighting – but he feared for his master.  Mr. Merry and Master Pippin would want to continue the sword-lessons; he was sure of that.  And Sam thought they should.  But for Mr. Frodo and himself … well, Sam didn't think that fighting was going to be their path.  The stocky hobbit's gaze strayed to where Frodo rested, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, breathing peacefully before the fire.  Sam didn't know what their path would be, but somehow, he didn't think that arrows and knives would help them.

       Frodo muttered in his sleep, catching Sam's attention.  Hobbit-quiet, Sam crept over to his master and laid a blanket over the twitching form.  But Frodo was not cold.  He pulled fretfully at the blanket, then pushed it off.  Perspiration gleamed along his face and the dark brows quirked.

      Sam watched, puzzled, as Frodo groaned, his eyes darting wildly under the closed lids.  Concern rising in his heart, Sam picked the blanket up off the floor and tried to cover him again.  Frodo's eyes snapped open and Sam's heart twisted at the unfocused terror there.  Another nightmare, then, just when he'd thought they were all over…

      "Mr. Frodo?  You all right, sir?"

       Frodo grabbed Sam's arms with a convulsive cry, waking Bilbo.  "Black Riders, Sam!  There's a Black Rider here!"

* TBC *


	27. As Darkness Draws Near

(Author's Note:  Shirebound and Baylor, would you please see the notes at the bottom of this chapter?  Still no luck on the repair of my Go button for reviewing – it works for two or three people and evidently only on certain chapters.  Aaarghhh!  ANYWAY – Childofchild, Coriandra, Leah Beth and Firiel, I feel I should apologize to you for those cliffhangers.  I plot my stories well in advance and often seem to end chapters on one.  I am not evil, truly.  Truly, QTPie-2488!  Obelia medusa, Pippin is going to get a complex … even his attempts at being responsible turn out badly.  Rose Cotton, what an enthusiastic review!  Don't worry, I'm sure your roommate knows all _LotRs_ fan(atics) are crazy.   TrueFan – not yet…  Tathar, you are right – no mercy!   [Loud evil laugh – no wait, I denied that…]  I am glad that so many of you want to see the series continued [thank you, Shirebound], so I will.  Thank you all for your support and your patience with this d--- computer glitch.)

 Chapter 27:  As Darkness Draws Near

       "Now, sir," Sam was saying, "you know that can't be.  They were all swept away -"

       "No!  No!  One wasn't!  One escaped!  Sam, I _know_ one is here.  There's a Black Rider in Rivendell!"  Frodo's eyes were glazed and unseeing, lost in a terror so profound that he was scarcely aware of his surroundings.  He was on his feet and trembling, trembling so violently that Sam thought he was going to collapse.  Quickly, Sam reached out and caught his master, wrapping him tightly in sheltering arms.  

      Frodo sagged against him, strengthless hands plucking at Sam's shirt.  "It's coming, Sam!  It is looking for me!"

      Bilbo levered himself stiffly out of his chair and cupped his withered hands around Frodo's sweating face, trying to call those morning glory eyes to his.  "Frodo my lad, calm down.  There are no evil things in Imladris."

     "It's coming!  I can feel it!  Feel it in my mind!"  Frodo's voice was spiraling up into hysteria; his body rigid, the too-thin frame clenched tightly yet Sam was all that held him up.  Growing increasingly frightened himself, Sam half-carried, half-pushed his master back into the chair.  Frodo struggled weakly, staring past Sam out to the balcony.  "It's close, and it's coming for me!"

      Bilbo followed them, stroking his nephew's hair and murmuring reassurances.  Consumed by the unrelenting nightmare, Frodo did not hear.  He began to hyperventilate, the aborted breaths racking his chest.  Bilbo tapped Sam on the shoulder, his brown eyes strained and frightened.  "Sam, go for Elrond.  Something is very wrong.  Hurry, lad."

      Frodo had pulled his knees up to his chest and laid his head upon them, wrapped in a ball of horror.  He was rocking forwards and back, hiding his eyes, choking on sobbing breaths.  Bilbo lowered his old bones to kneel by the chair and wrapped his arms tightly around Frodo's waist, telling him that he was safe, that nothing could harm him here.  But even that gentle, much-loved voice could not penetrate the Ringbearer's prison of terror.  With a last glance at his master, Sam reluctantly turned and raced out the door.  'Something is very wrong,' Mr. Bilbo had said, and Sam knew in his heart that the old hobbit was right.  This unreasoning terror wasn't like his master.  Even when those wicked things had him down and cornered that terrible night on Weathertop, he hadn't lost himself in fear.  The look in his eyes…

       Stars above, where was Elrond?   Sam tore past the gazebo, peering desperately into the late-afternoon shadows, scanning the balconies for the tall, elegant figure.  Where would he be this time of day?  Sam ran to the Lord of Imladris' study, rushing past his secretary with an inarticulate cry.  Elrond raised a startled face when the door rebounded from its hinges, papers and manuscripts scattering off his desk in the sudden gust.  The Elf-lord rose gracefully, a stern expression forming on his high-browed face.  "Master Gamgee, what –"

       "You've got 'ta come, my lord!  It's Mr. Frodo.  Please, sir, you've got 'ta come!"

      Whatever words of rebuke Elrond had been about to deliver died on his lips as he took in the sight of the white-faced, terrified halfling.  He snatched up the large black bag that he kept ever in readiness in his study and with a hand on Sam's shoulder, followed the hobbit swiftly from the room.

* * * * *

       His heart in his throat, Pippin followed the Men that were following his back trail to where Merry slept, defenseless and hurt.  The young hobbit had sought to distract the Men more than once, slipping noiselessly alongside them and rustling the bushes or making odd sounds to attract their attention.  No woodsmen, these, the Men ignored all of his attempts at distraction and single-mindedly focused on the blazes that led back to the hobbits' camp.

       Pippin was growing desperate.  He could not allow these Men (scouts of the mercenaries that Aragorn had seen, he thought) to find Merry.  He and Merry could give them their food, and whatever else they wanted, but Pippin feared that everything they had would not satisfy these Men.  From what he could overhear of their growled conversations, the Men were hungry and frustrated and ill content with their lot.  They were the sort who would delight in hurting two young halflings, one of them already injured, simply for the twisted delight of giving pain to something smaller and weaker than they.

       Pippin choked back the wail that wanted to rise in his throat.  Never in his life had he felt so small and helpless.  He had never felt so in the Shire.  In the Shire, he had seen Big Folk from a distance, but rarely, and even more rarely did he accompany his father to deal with them.  The only Big Person he saw was Gandalf, with an occasional glimpse of a Ranger, visible only as a quick flash of gray and green then gone.  Then he and Merry and Frodo and Sam had come to Bree, and suddenly everything was so outsized and threatening.  

       What was he going to do?  It would be getting dark soon.  Could he dart in and wound them, cripple them, before they were aware of him?  Should he run ahead and warn Merry, and the two of them escape with what they could carry?  Could he trick them into following a false trail?   The three of them were now less than fifteen minutes' walk from camp.  Aragorn had told him to take care of Merry.  He could not allow any harm to come to the person he loved best in the world.  He had to do something very soon.

* * * * *

       Elladan rode swiftly, sitting the great gray stallion with a natural grace that made no division between Elf and horse.  His thoughts wandered from his missing brother to his separated foster brother, now tracking a Nazgûl.  'Be safe, Elrohir,' he thought.  'Be safe, Estel.'  Then his thoughts turned to the hobbits left back at camp, and he added one more prayer to Elbereth. 'Merry and Pippin, may you also be safe.'

      The stallion stretched out his long neck and Elladan rose in the saddle and shifted his weight forward above the animal's withers, helping the great horse run.  At another time, Elladan would have enjoyed the ride, the exhilaration of the powerfully muscled animal moving beneath him, the wind in his face, the slow sinking of the Sun … but there was little joy in his heart now.   A shadow and a threat was growing in his mind, and nothing but seeing them all safe and reunited again would dispel it.  

* * * * *  

      Much the same thoughts were passing through Aragorn's mind as he watched Elladan ride off.   This time he did not remount but walked leading his gelding, his watchful eyes ever on the soft earth.  He found where he had lost Elrohir's trail; it veered to the East.  Now the Ranger did mount and stood up in the saddle to see further into the distance.  Far ahead of him, it seemed the earth was greatly trampled, as if a great host had passed that way.  The hoof marks of Elrohir's stallion passed towards the trodden area, merged with it and were lost.   Aragorn greatly desired to find out what had happened but he could not spare the time.  He turned his back on Elrohir's trail and sought that of the Black Rider.

       Aragorn returned to the river's edge and sought the scuffed marks from where he had cleaned the foul marks of the Nazgûl's mount from the sand.  Backtracking, he found the beast's tracks and began to follow them.  He wanted to follow the trail as far as he could before the light failed.  When he came to a clear patch of earth, Aragorn dismounted to study the hoof marks more closely.  This was a big animal with a long stride, capable of great speed.  Yet the hooves were misshapen, as was all the Dark Lord touched.  The imprint of the nails that were driven from the side of the hooves through the tender frog into the shoe were clearly visible.  'It must make each step the beast takes an agony,' Aragorn thought.  'Or perhaps the poor beast is now so perverted that pain matters not to it.'  Shivering a little, the Ranger patted his own horse gently on the side of the neck, then urged it to greater speed. 

* * * * *

       Far to the north of Imladris, the son of its lord sat in a tree and tried to amuse himself by inventing tortures for the great host of Men that camped below him.  So far, Elrohir had wished for a fast-moving brush fire, the introduction of some vile ingredient into the cook pots that gave them all the trots, and a plague of locusts.  As his good humor at his involuntary entrapment deteriorated, the fantasies became darker.  He almost wished that the reports of large numbers of orcs moving East had been true; then perhaps they would encounter this host and in the ensuing battle, he could make his escape.  It would be too much to hope for that the opposing forces would destroy each other.

       At least the great host seemed to be preparing to move out, to seek a fresh campsite before darkness fell.  Elrohir had watched since the previous afternoon, through the cold night, as the Men rested and repaired their gear, readying themselves to continue their march.  The Elf was not impressed.  The host seemed to be comprised of several companies of mercenaries, all of them dirty, ill trained and ill-equipped, and showing coarse behaviors.  The Men fought among themselves like snarling dog-packs, the strong bullying the weak.  As he watched, Elrohir saw more than one or two struck down by their fellows, the possessions of the murdered ones stolen before the bodies had even cooled.

      This was the intelligence for which he and Elladan and Estel and the little ones had been sent.  For intelligence of the enemy's numbers and arms and movements.  And here he sat in an oak tree, hiding from those he was sent to observe.  Elrohir sighed in disgust and raised his dark eyes to watch the westering sun.

      So it was that he heard the croaking cries before he saw them.  Elrohir twisted about in the tree and looked behind him, drawn from his contemplation of the lowering Sun by the odd sounds.  A dark cloud marred the clear skies to the East, a smudge on the blue canvas.  Elrohir stiffened and directed his keen elven eyes to the dirty smear.  The dark cloud was approaching rapidly, splintering into many small fast-moving bodies.  With a sinking heart, the Elf recognized them as _crebain_, foul eyes out of Fangorn and Dunland, spying for the wizard Saruman.

      The crows were coming at speed, so many that the beats of their wings made a small thunder that drowned out the constant babble of talk and shouts below him.  Below him, heads were turning, being raised to regard the _crebain_ in apprehension and fear.  Too late did Elrohir remember that the sheltering leaves of the great oak in which he crouched would not shield him from eyes at a level with his. 

      The foremost of the flying horde were drawing near to him, eyeing him and cawing in great excitement.  Their agitation at locating a hidden watcher was being communicated through the flock, and they flapped and swirled about him at incredible speed.  Elrohir found his bow in his hands and an arrow nocked, but after a moment's hesitation, he lowered the weapon in frustration.  The thick boughs of the oak interfered with his aim.  And it did not matter, Elrohir thought.  He could spend all of his arrows and a thousand more and never make a dent in their numbers.

       Others of the foul flock had veered off, over flying the mercenaries and no doubt gathering much of the same information as the Elf, to report to their distant master.  Dimly over the croaking cries, Elrohir could hear the Men shouting to each other and saw them gesturing at the _crebain_.  One of the Men, a great, dirty brute, pointed up at the throng and shouted in rage, "Aren't we movin' fast enough for his Wizardness, then?  He didn't need to send his flying rats to spy on us!"

       Another came to his side, sheltering his head from the rain of excrement with which the _crebain_ fouled the earth.  "What's got them so excited, Captain?  Look how they're swirling 'round that oak tree."

       The Man raised a hand to shelter his eyes, staring up into the thick foliage of the oak.  The setting sun, as well as the screaming flock, interfered with his attempt to see into the leaves.  Elrohir tried to shrink farther back against the trunk but could retreat no further against the hard bark.  Excited the more by his movement, the _crebain_ cawed and flapped around him with renewed vigor, trying to dart through the branches to attack him.  Small they were, but very many, and those beaks and claws were as sharp as razors.  If they could blind him, he would not last long against them.  This the Elf knew, and understood that the _crebain_ knew it also. 

       Below him, the mercenary captain watched and wondered at the strange behavior of the birds.  Summoning his lieutenants to him, he gave them swift instructions and set them to climb the tree and report to him of what they found there.  Elrohir watched the Men as they formed a loose circle around the oak and started to climb.  The Elf returned the useless bow to his back and drew his long knives.

* TBC *

Shirebound, please pardon this unorthodox way of reviewing.  I can't review anything by you or Baylor and a few other people.  You are right – that this software glitch is frustrating is an understatement.  But I HAD to tell you so how much I am enjoying "In the Keeping of the King."  The third chapter, the conversation between Gandalf and Aragorn concerning Frodo and Sam, is one of the finest pieces of writing I have ever read.  It is very rare that a scene expands my mind to new, undiscovered nuances of _LotRs_ while so evoking such an emotional response.  "Brilliant" is the only description I can use.

Baylor, for some reason this glitch has targeted you, too, denying me the ability to rhapsodize over "A Word of Caution Regarding Hobbits."  You give our so-loved characters a life and a vibrancy that impresses me beyond words.  I expect to raise my eyes and see them standing before me, with all their humor and affection and joy and love.  Thank you for the gift of your stories.


	28. Darkness Falls

(Author's Note:  Camelia Gamgee-Took, it was an honor and my pleasure.  Elwen, "a disjointed heap?"- what a visual picture!  No wonder you write so well.  Lily Baggins, more hobbit angst as requested!  Firnsarnien, your review made me grin.  Baylor, thank you for your comment on my Bilbo.  I studied shirebound, Lily Baggins and FBoBE to understand how they handled hurt/comfort writing so well; I am going to study your work to understand how you write relationships and family so well. Your stories always warm my heart.  A Elbereth, thanks for the reassurance; I am still somewhat worried.  Zorra, those bits of humor are _so_ important.  Jay of Lasgalen, here is more Elrohir for you.  GreyLadyBast, I am honored by your reviews.  'Praise from the praiseworthy.'  Coriandra, looking at the summary you just listed exhausted me.  Leth Beth, ditto!  QTPie-2488,"leaving them begging for more" is quite a compliment.  I am glad that so many are enjoying this series.  The number of chapters is beginning to scare me, though.)

Chapter 28:  Darkness Falls

       Aragorn had been moving south, moving slower than his usual wont so as not to lose the trail he was following.  The terrain alternated between grassy swaths and bare patches of ground laced with sharp stones.  Several times he had been forced to dismount and seek the hoof prints by feel.  The Black Rider's mount's nail-imbedded hooves scarred rock as they passed over it but on the bare, stony earth, they made little imprint.  Standing quietly at Aragorn's side, the gelding stretched out its long neck and sniffed at the hoof prints, drawing back with a snort and white-rimmed eyes.

       There could be no doubt now, though the Ranger was loath to admit it.  He rose and shaded his eyes with a hand, staring into the distance.  The forest around him was deserted, as if all the natural creatures had fled before the Nazgûl's advance.  The woods were silent, not even birdcalls enlivening the still air.  No, no doubt at all…

      The evil thing was heading for Rivendell.

       The creature was traveling slowly, at no more than a walk.  Its mount's disfigured hooves soiled the earth at regular intervals and the grass that bent under its steps did not rise again.  At this pace … at this pace, it would arrive in Imladris no earlier than tomorrow's eve, if the Black Rider did not rest at night.  Somehow, Aragorn knew that it would not rest.  It must be close enough to feel the Ring, or at least the general direction in which the Ring lay.  Perhaps it could feel that the Ring was no longer moving, no longer fleeing before it.  Could it also feel the protections with which Elrond had encircled his hidden valley?

       Should he ride on to Rivendell or return to the scouting party?  If he rode through the night at the fastest pace he dared in the darkness, he would arrive before the Rider.  Surely the creature did not know the ways of the Last Homely House – it would lose valuable time searching for the Ringbearer.  Elrond would certainly feel it as it came within his domain, feel it as a coldness in his heart and a pain in the clear recesses of his soul.  

       His decision made, Aragorn wheeled the gelding around and set it running north, back towards the campsite.  Indecision still gnawed at his heart but he made had best choice he could.  He must rely on Elrond to protect Frodo; he would gather up the halflings and Elladan – and hopefully, Elrohir – and return as quickly as they may.  Aragorn's heart twisted within him; the scouting mission had failed.  _He_ had failed.  He would return without the information for which they had been sent. 

* * * * *  

        "No!  No!  Let me go!"

       The Master of Rivendell swept into the Ringbearer's rooms and stopped dead in shock.  He never thought he would witness the sight now before his eyes.  Frodo was twisting in Bilbo's arms like a wild thing, his wide eyes empty of anything other than terror and the desire to escape.  Yet still he managed not to harm his frail uncle, twisting and trying to slide free rather than striking his captor.  Bilbo held on like grim death, his arms locked around Frodo's chest, murmuring a constant stream of reassurances and comfort.  Frodo keened, lost in hysteria.

      Sam rushed past the Elf-lord and caught Frodo's arms, holding him so that Bilbo could pull away.  With a sob, Bilbo did so, falling back against Elrond.  Swiftly, the Elf-lord caught him and half-carried him to a chair.  Bilbo batted at him, frantic.  "Help him, Elrond!  I've never seen him like this!"

       Elrond squeezed the fragile shoulder gently before turning back to the fray.  Sam had Frodo on the floor, wrestling him down by greater body weight and strength.  He'd caught the Ringbearer's hands and crossed them over his chest, half-laying on Frodo to keep him pinned on his belly to the floor.  Frodo wailed and bucked, trying to throw him off.

       Swiftly Elrond knelt by the struggling pair and opened his satchel.  He did not try to reach or speak to Frodo, seeing that the Ringbearer was beyond reason.  From far away he registered that Samwise was begging his master to be calm, be still, tears flowing down his round face.  But he could not let either's distress slow him.  The Elf-lord's long hands sorted through the phials and herbs within, selected one earthenware vial corked and sealed with wax.  He broke off the cork and sniffed it to be certain there was no error, turning back to the mêlée.

       Sam had succeeded in restraining Frodo; the Ringbearer lay beneath him panting, enormous eyes blank, sweat glistening over his entire body.  Sam angled his head up painfully, trying to locate Elrond.  "Hurry, sir!  Hurry!"

       Frodo wiggled like an eel as Elrond moved to his side.  "Turn him over," the Elf instructed.  "He must swallow this."  Frodo stared at him but there was no recognition in his eyes.  But he recognized the sedative and threw himself desperately to the side, trying to escape.

      Sam did not loosen his grip through he was dragged several feet sideways.  Elrond followed, helping the sturdy hobbit roll his master onto his side.  Frodo kicked at him and the Elf-lord was hard-pressed to avoid those powerful hobbit-feet.  He circled 'round behind Sam and caught Frodo's head from the rear, forcing his head back and the jaw open. 

      The sweat in the hobbit's dark hair made it difficult to hold him.  While Sam immobilized him, Elrond poured in the sedative.  Frodo tried to spit it out, his eyes wild.  Elrond clamped his mouth shut then carefully gauging his strength, punched the hobbit in the stomach.

      Frodo doubled over, swallowing hugely as he fought for breath.  He gagged and choked, the thick liquid of the sedative coating his throat.  For a moment longer he fought them, then with an enormous sigh, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed bonelessly in Sam's arms.  Elrond became aware that Bilbo knelt besides them, weeping quietly as he stroked his nephew's limp curls.  "Oh, my poor lad," the old one whispered.  "My poor lad."

       With a sigh of his own, Elrond sat back on his heels and checked the unconscious halfling's pulse, then opened one thick-lashed eye to examine the enormously dilated pupil.  He rose and bent to lift the small figure, laying it gently on the bed, and pulled the coverlet over the limp form.  Frodo was unresponsive, his breathing slowing, small hiccups and coughs still racking him as his overtaxed body relaxed.

       Elrond stroked back the dark curls from the glistening forehead.  He turned on the bed, settling himself comfortably on the edge.  Samwise would develop a nice black eye, he noted; an unlucky elbow had caught him on the cheek.   Tears still streamed down both the small ones' faces.  "Now," he asked them softly, "What upset him so?"

* * * * *

        Watching the men struggle up the great oak with all the grace of climbing oliphaunts, Elrohir reflected that this was an inglorious way to die.  His lord father would be mortified.  Elladan … Elladan would be destroyed.  The twins had always been together.  He could not imagine life without his brother – would not want to live if Elladan did not.  He knew his twin felt the same.  Regret for the sorrow his death would cause his brothers and sister and his father and friends filled the Elf's heart.

       The _crebain_ were further excited by the climbing men, darting in to rake them with those razor beaks and claws.  Finding they could not reach the Elf through the branches and thick foliage, they concentrated instead on the climbing mercenaries.  Blood was streaming down the soldiers' backs, marking their arms and legs where sharp beaks had punctured the rough cloth of their breeches and jerkins.  The blood seemed to drive the birds into a frenzy and the cawing and screaming increased, more of the creatures withdrawing from trying to attack Elrohir to strike at the undefended men.

       Despite the distraction, the men were drawing close and the young Elf could hear their snarling voices swearing and gasping obscenities as they struggled to evade the birds and pull themselves up.  Elrohir steadied himself against the thick trunk and readied his knives.  As soon as the nearest Man raised his head, he would be seen.  Then the mercenary would call out to his fellows, and it would soon be over.

       Instead of raising his head and meeting the Elf's eyes, the Man suddenly jerked violently and lost his grip.  As Elrohir watched, astonished, several of the men either flung themselves against the trunk or dropped, catching themselves on a lower branch.  But it was not until he saw the first black body fall past him that he understood.  Of course … the mercenaries were hungry and above them flapped fresh, succulent meat.  Arrows arched into the air, passing perilously close to the stranded men.  Screaming curses at their fellows, the men started down, trying to shield themselves from spent shafts.  Small feathered corpses began to fall like black rain; they were so many that almost every arrow, aimed or not, buried itself in a target.  Elrohir crushed himself against the trunk but the soldiers were shooting out from the tree, shooting at the _crebain_ that swirled around it.  

        Caught in their frenzy, the _crebain_ were slow to understand what was happening.  Men darted below Elrohir on the ground, picking up the black forms and already starting to pluck them.  Cook pots were being dragged out.  Over the creatures' cawing and the men's cries, Elrohir became aware of the captain shouting, "Hold, hold!" his powerful voice rising over the confusion.  "Hold, I say!  Bows down!"

       The host did not obey immediately, depending on the general noise and confusion to cover their release of yet more arrows.  But slowly the rain of arrows thinned and then ceased.  Elrohir stared down in amazement.  Black bodies littered the ground, piled two and three deep in places.  The surviving _crebain_ seemed in shock, fallen silent, their black wings still carrying them in circles about the great tree.  Then, as one, the flock gathered itself and swept away to the East.

       The captain stood with his hands on his hips, glaring around him.  In the silence that followed, his words came easily to the Elf's ears.  "That was a fine display of mutiny, that was!  Who started it?"

       The men under his command milled about, eyes carefully downcast, none of them meeting his glare.  Knowing he would receive no reply, the captain capitulated.  "Gather them up, then; no use in wasting fresh meat."  A cheer, quickly suppressed, met this order.  "But now we'll double-march the rest of the way!  Have to get 'ta His Wizardness and explain why you lot ate his little birdies."

       Elrohir watched, astonished beyond measure, as the entire company packed itself up and marched off, gathering up every fallen black form along the way.  He sat in the tree long after the last had departed, then grasped the nearest branch to steady himself as he began to laugh.

* * * * * 

       Far away yet closer than he had been, Elladan started at the sudden, inexplicable lightening of his heart.  The great stallion beneath him rolled an ear back at the sudden glad cry that burst from his master's lips.   Elladan patted the foamed gray neck reassuringly.  Mindful of Estel's concerns over the little ones, he leaned forward again and let the mighty animal's long strides bear him back to the campsite.

        It was with relief that he pulled up short of the place where they had left the hobbits, walking the horse the last few meters so as not to startle them.  "Peregrin!" he called.  "Meriadoc!"  No response.  "Merry, Pippin - it is I, Elladan.  Are you here?"

        With that, the great stallion walked through the low brush around the camp.  Elladan stared in shock.  No halflings.  And no gear, no supplies, no marks of residence.  Instead, the ground was churned, here and there marked by scuffs and gouges.  Looking closer, the Elf saw a discarded spoon, half-trampled into the soft earth.  A wooden mug, shattered into splinters, lay abandoned by the cold remains of the fire.  A small length of moss-green cloth was caught on a low branch, dangling forlorn in the slight breeze.  Swinging off his mount and pulling it free, Elladan recognized it as Pippin's scarf.  Along one edge, ruby droplets of blood stained the soft wool.

        Elladan clutched the scarf close and looked about the small clearing.  "Merry," he called.  "Pippin!  Answer me!"  Only silence replied to his desperate call.

* TBC *


	29. Darkness Deepens

(Author's Note:  Rose Cotton, of course there would have to be a finale for Pip's artwork!  Nilmandra, yes, I think the Nazgûl would have to be on Elrond's land for him to sense it.  Alatariel, I make you "feel horrible" and you want more?  LOL!  Coriandra and Eris, here's your Merry and Pip, as requested.   Elwen – I should have seen _that_ coming.  **:**D   Lily Baggins, when I read your "Yowza" I laughed so hard I choked on my cereal.  Firiel, I'm glad you are enjoying the story.  Pansy Chubb, you get the chapter's brownie point for picking up on that foreshadowing.  Firnsarnien, sorry – I just can't seem to resist those 'evil cliffies.'  Leah Beth and QTPie-2488, I _can't -_ truly.  Bookworm, I enjoyed your description and yes, that connection between the twins was "twin-sense."  Claudia, I'm thrilled!  Bird lovers, unite!   One of mine is sitting on my shoulder at this moment, trying to eat my earring.  A Elbereth, I'm delighted that my stories give you so much happiness; thank you for telling me.  Tathar, I'm glad you got that chapter of "Descending Caradhras."  And thanks again for the plot bunny for "The Ruin of Men and Elves."  Katakandian, oh, good phrase … yes, will remember that…  Shirebound, Chapter 29!  This is _your_ fault!  I've got to break this story into two parts; it is just getting out o' hand!  Thanks, friends, for your expressions of enjoyment and encouragement.)

Chapter 29:  Darkness Deepens

       Elladan knelt on the pine needle-strewn earth and raked aside some of the forest debris, struggling to read the tale the earth had to tell.  But the scuffs and smudges in the dirt told him little; he was not the tracker his foster brother was.  To one side of the small clearing, he found the unmistakable trampling of the earth that signified heavy boots.  Men, then.  The Elf closed his eyes in relief for a moment … he had feared that the Nazgûl sought the nearest hobbits, Ringbearer or not.

       Here and there he could make out the partial imprint of a bare hobbit foot, some trodden over by the great boots.  Here, and here – that must be Peregin, his prints were smaller than the other.  He followed the small tracks from the campsite and some little way into the forest.  But Elladan could not look at the ground and tell the time between the hobbit and human tracks; his skill did not extend so far.  With a sigh of exasperation, he sat back on his haunches, rolling the pine needles and leaves between his long fingers.

       Unmoving now, he heard in the distance a running horse.  For a moment his heart rose in his throat.  The Black Rider was never far from his thoughts.  Elladan knew himself no match for such a thing.  Estel, returning?  What would bring him back at such a pace?  _Elrohir?_

       The twins each knew that the other half of his soul waited before Elrohir broke through the brush and swung down from the saddle.  Elladan and Elrohir embraced, no words needed between them.  But at last Elladan found them.  "Where _were_ you?"

       Elrohir laughed and leaned his brow against his brother's.  Like two sides of a mirror they looked, one image the reflection of the other.  "Brother, have I a tale for you."

       Elladan pulled back, his face sobering.  "And I have one for you.  Estel tracks a Nazgûl.  And the little ones are missing."

* * * * * 

       Pippin wrapped his arms around Merry and eased his cousin against the tree, sliding down the rough bark to collapse beside him.  Merry was holding his broken arm with the other and his face was deathly white.  Running had aggravated the injury and it had gone from barely aching to throbbing so intensely that he felt nauseous.   Both of them tried to stifle their gasping breaths and be quiet.

       Pippin peered around the tree.  "Do you think we lost them?  I think we lost them."  Blood dripped down his cheek from where a branch had caught him as he dashed back to the campsite to warn his cousin.  Pippin rubbed the stinging cut absently, smearing the blood on his face.

       Merry could not reply for a moment.  Pippin looked at him then flung his arms around the panting form.  "I'm so sorry, Merry.  I ran as fast as I could.  But they were almost to camp and I couldn't -"

       "Not your fault, Pip," Merry finally managed, taking great gulps of air against the sickness that made his vision blur and his head swim.  "You cut Inmara's tie-stake and got me out in time.  They didn't get any of us."

      "But they got our supplies – everything, Merry!  All our food and the water-skins and blankets and -"

       "And nothing that matters," Merry interrupted him.  "You are all right and so am I.  So is Inmara, wherever she bolted to."

       Pippin was fighting back tears.  "It's my fault.  It's my fault, Merry!  I led them right to camp.  They followed my blazes.  I was trying to be so responsible and not get lost, and I _led them right back to you -"_

      "Pippin!  They'll hear!"  The tweenager was quiet instantly, his small hands buried in his cousin's cloak as he trembled.  "It's not your fault," Merry repeated, more gently this time.  The throbbing was easing, leaving room in his mind for something other than fighting the pain.  "Now listen to me.  We've got to hide … find someplace where the Men won't find us and wait for Aragorn and the twins to return."

       Pippin sniffed hugely, trying to follow his elder cousin's lead.  "I set some snares in good hiding places.  Where coneys would hide, I mean.  We could hide there, too."

       "Is it far?"  Though he was no longer gasping, Merry's face was gray and streaked with perspiration.  

       Pippin slid a shoulder under his cousin's good arm and helped him to stand.  "No, not far.  Lean on me, Merry."

       Though it was indeed not far, it took the two stumbling figures some time to find the leafy bower where Pippin had laid his last snares before the Men had chanced upon his trail.  Pippin quickly checked the snares but none had game in them.  Not that they had a cook pot, any vegetables or even firewood.  Then he helped Merry crawl into the leaf-roofed little opening, shielded on three sides by boughs and late-flowering vines.    

       The hobbits slept then, completely exhausted.  Merry woke first, thirst clawing at his throat.  If he listened, he could just hear the river; a tributary must be close.  Checking that Pip was still soundly asleep, Merry dragged himself out of the bower and located the stream by following his ears.  After satisfying his need, he cast about for some means to take water back to Pip.  He didn't want him wandering about alone –

      The Man burst out from behind the tree with a roar, momentarily freezing Merry from pure shock.  Unimaginably strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him off his feet.  Merry tried to cow-kick the Man in the stomach but the mercenary knew hobbits and was wise to that trick.  With terrifying ease, he immobilized the struggling hobbit and whispered in his ear, "Where's the other one, then?"

       Another surge of nausea rose in Merry's throat and he fought it down.  The Man sat him down by the simple expedient of dropping him and caught his broken arm in a vise-like grip, ignoring the hobbit's cry of pain.  "What's this?"  Dirty fingers explored the sling.  "Got away with some goodies, did you?  And me mates were happy with your little bit o' food and supplies!  Is this where you hid your money, halfling?"

       The Man's avaricious expression went blank when he pulled Merry's arm out of the sling and unwrapped the limb from its support.  If Merry hadn't been in so much pain from the rough handling and terrified for himself and Pippin, he would have laughed at the soldier's expression as he held up Pippin's detestable bread sculpture.

         "HAH!  HA!  Hahahaha…" almost choking, the Man doubled over, his hoarse brays of laughter sending the birds fleeing from the trees.  "Hahaha … the family jewels!"

       Even being abducted and restrained and hurt could not diminish Merry's humiliation.  The hobbit groaned and wished he could just sink into the ground.  But all too soon the Man's amusement spent itself and he returned to business.  Tossing the dough form onto the spongy riverbank, he picked Merry up by his shirtfront and held him up to his unshaved face.  "Where's the money?  Where's the money, halfling?"

      "We don't have any money," Merry gasped; the Man's grasp was strangling him.

      "Everyone takes money when they journey!"  The mercenary shook Merry, jarring the broken arm agonizingly.  Merry closed his eyes in pain, then opened them again as a muffled cry came to his ears.  No … no, please…

      Pippin crouched in the bushes bordering the riverbank, an expression of horror on his young face that Merry would never forget.  "Pippin," he managed, _"Run_ -"

      With a roar, the Man dropped Merry and lunged after the tweenager.  Pippin shot straight up and landed facing in the opposite direction, tearing back into cover.  The Man blundered after him, ripping bushes from the earth and breaking branches off trees in his pursuit.  Abandoned and forgotten, Merry struggled to his feet and followed, sobs of pain and terror racking his small form.

* * * * *

       Aragorn halted his mount on the crest of one of the steep rises north of Rivendell, hoping against hope that the Nazgûl's trail turned aside.  Despite hard riding, he had not caught up with the Black Rider, which meant that it had increased its speed.  It knew where the Ring lay, now.

       The winding, confusing pathways into Imladris would delay it for a time.  Some of the entry-ways into the hidden valley were so narrow that only a single horse could traverse them a time, making them difficult to spot from afar.  Elrond would sense the Nazgûl, Aragorn knew, as soon as it set foul foot on his land.  If he continued to follow its trail into Imladris, he might overtake it and…  And what?  Glorfindel, a mighty Elf-lord, could not triumph against them with all the power that was in him.  What could a single man do against such evil?

       One man could warn his lord.  Choosing another path than the one the Black Rider had taken, Aragorn spurred his gelding down a rocky incline that he knew opened to a small meadow in the vertical hillsides above the Last Homely House.  Small stones and soil tumbled after him as the horse slid down, practically on his tail.  The Rider's path was a dead end, emptying into a sheer cliff face.  It would have to retrace its steps before finding a path into Imladris.  Perhaps, with sufficient warning, Elrond could muster the forces needed to finish the surviving Black Rider and return it to Mordor, empty and shapeless, until the Nine could regroup and return.

* * * * *

       Elrond raised his dark head from where he sat with the unconscious Ringbearer, a smile forming on his lips.  Aragorn…  But the smile faltered and faded.  Yes, Estel, but alone and frightened and troubled.  And something dark came after him … not yet to the borders of Imladris but coming quickly.

       Elrond stood, causing Bilbo and Sam to start and stare up at him.  "What is it, Elrond?" Bilbo asked, his sharp old eyes noting Elrond's sudden trepidation.

       "Nothing, my old friend," returned the Elf-lord matter-of-factly. "Just a difficulty I must attend to.  I will instruct the kitchens to send you trays this eve."

      "Are you going 'ta leave us?" asked Sam.  The black eye that Frodo had inadvertently given him was coming along nicely.  "What if he needs you, sir?"

       "I will not be far, Master Samwise.  Your master will sleep through the night without waking.  The sedative I gave him was very strong.  There are orders that I must give my people, and councils to take regarding what you have told me of Frodo's fears."

       "Elrond -" began Bilbo in his best 'look-here-young-hobbit' voice, and amusement briefly lit the Elf-lord's ageless eyes as the old halfling attempted to take him to task.

       "Stay with him," the Master of Rivendell bade them.  Frightened eyes, brown and grey, met his and he knew that he had not fooled them.  "Do not fear," Elrond said softly.  "I will not allow the Ringbearer to come to harm while in my care."  In a billow of copper-colored robes, he was gone.

       No sooner had he left than Frodo began to whimper and struggle weakly against the cool sheets and warm blankets.  His thick eyelashes fluttered but he could not force his way past the drugs Elrond had forced upon him to calm him.  Bilbo reached out and caught the flailing hands in his, murmuring reassurances and endearments, the grief and sorrow in his cracking old voice rending Sam's heart.  Sam rose and moved to the balcony, staring out at the sheer cliffs that ringed and protected the valley.  Then he pulled the balcony doors shut and dragged the drapes across them, shutting out the world as best he could.

* * * * *

      Pippin's cries of terror spurred Merry to greater speed even as they froze his heart and weakened his limbs.  His hand sought the small razor-sharp throwing-dagger he wore at his waist and then nearly dropped it as a stab of agony tore through his arm when he tried to close upon it.  He drew it left-handed, awkwardly.  Could he throw left-handed?  He had never tried.

       Merry burst out of the ground cover near the sheltered bower where he and Pippin had slept.  The Man had Pippin down, his hands around the tweenager's throat.  Pippin's face was turning blue.  His back arched off the ground as he bucked, trying to throw the mercenary off, his small hands pulling against the Man's as he fought for breath.  Pippin got both feet under him and kicked, his fear lending him strength.  Grunting, the Man fell backwards - then screamed.  Unlocking his legs, Merry ran to Pippin and tried to drag him away but Pippin twisted in his one-handed grasp.  "No, Merry, no!  Don't move!"

       The Man screamed again, rolling as another snare fastened itself about his leg, tightening further as he thrashed.  Another snapped on his outstretched arm, drawing blood.  A fourth caught the same arm, pinning it to the earth.   Panting, the mercenary lay still.  His creased eyes glared at them as he slowly reached down and pulled the two wires off his leg, shaking blood off his fingers as he pulled off the two immobilizing his arm.  Merry sagged against Pippin, too shocked and bewildered to flee.  Pippin's eyes were huge as he watched his plan collapse.  

       "Rabbit-snares?  _Rabbit_-snares?" the Man sneered.  "I am not a coney, lads."  He looked at the blood and his face darkened with rage.  "I'm going to make you sorry you were ever born, you little Shire-rats."  

* TBC *


	30. Dawn

(Author's Note:  The hobbits have now spent a month in Rivendell and this short story has evolved into _thirty _chapters.  It seems a good place to break the story in half.  I feel this is necessary; it is just too unwieldy and difficult to handle at thirty chapters.  This story will be continued in "Renewal in Rivendell."   Just a few quick responses:  Firnsarnien, I have written two "Moria" stories, "All Evil Things" and "Stars in the Dark."  I'd love to do another.  Bookworm, I regret that that scene between Frodo and Faramir wasn't filmed, too.  Baylor, I love your hobbits best of all – they are most like the Professor's, I think.  Rose Cotton, the copywrite symbol slayed me!  Alatariel, just a little Frodo torture … he gets so much of it.  Coriandra, I breathe a sigh of relief.   Leah Beth, my thanks.  QTPie-2488, hey, begging _works_.  Jael, welcome.  You name me in illustrious company.  Claudia, don't you find that "evil cliffies" stimulate the imagination?  Jay of Lasgalen, the action takes place not too far from camp, remember.  Shirebound, at the ending of this first part of the story, I want to thank you especially for your encouragement and support.  You were the one who said, "Keep going!" when I didn't think I could.  Thank you.)

Chapter 30:  Dawn

       The Lord of Imladris swept through the polished hallways of his home, unaware of the looks of apprehension that passed among his folk as they beheld his face, for it was stern and set and a dark cloud gathered on his brow.  Courtiers and gallants bowed and withdrew from his path, casting quick worried glances among themselves.   Some of these he collected with a glance; others he sent to seek for the Elf-lords of his House and upon other errands.  When he at last seated himself in his study, there came behind him a great number of mighty warriors and weapons-masters of Rivendell.

       "A Nazgûl comes to Imladris," he informed them without preamble.  "The Ringbearer has sensed it.  I feel it only as darkness and a coldness in my heart, for it has not yet crossed the borders of this land.  But I do not doubt Frodo's word.  In this, the Ringbearer has bitter experience and his knowing of this evil is greater than mine."

       Glorfindel moved to the fore of the gathered throng and bowed.  "What are we to do, my lord?"

       Elrond's dark eyes swept over the assemblage, powerful and ageless, strong in their arms and knowledge.  "We cannot destroy it.  It is a creature of the Dark Lord and will endure as long as its master."

       Glorfindel nodded, his noble face both sad and unyielding.  "What are your orders?"

       Elrond stood, his copper mantle falling in gentle folds about his tall form.  "Arm yourselves.  We ride to meet it."

* * * * *  

       Sam pulled aside the balcony drapes when he heard the clattering of hooves and urgent yet contained calls of the Elves below.  Looking out, he saw a mighty host, dozens strong, arrayed for battle.  Their helms shone in the westering sun and light reflected from their amour.  Bilbo did not rise from where he sat by Frodo's side, holding his cold hand, but he met the younger hobbit's eyes and Sam saw both fear and sorrow in his gaze.

       Frodo groaned and Bilbo's gaze returned to him.  "Hush, my boy," the old hobbit crooned, his hand tightening on his nephew's.  Bilbo had thought Frodo too deeply drugged to be aware of his comfort but he prayed that the lad at least knew he and Sam were there, and that he was not alone.  But as he stroked the trembling hand, Frodo's thick eyelashes fluttered and he moaned.  "Go to sleep, Frodo-lad," Bilbo whispered, striving to keep his voice soft and reassuring.  "Go back to sleep, my dear."

       But Frodo fought, trying to drag himself to wakefulness.  Bilbo watched him writhe, knotting the blankets about himself, his distress deepening as he vaguely felt the restraining covers.  "Samwise," called Bilbo, "help me.  He's tying himself up."

       Sam quickly left off watching the muster and hurried to help his old master, easing the sheets and blankets from around the struggling form.  Freed of the restraining covers, Frodo's twisting increased, perspiration coating him as he battled the strong sedative.  "He's fighting it," Bilbo murmured to Sam, tears crowding his old eyes.  

       "Aye," Sam muttered back.  He leaned over to wet a soft cloth and wring it out.  "He can feel that wicked thing comin' closer."  Sam wiped the sweating face gently, trying to cool and reassure his master.  "It's all right, Mr. Frodo," he whispered to the writhing form.  "We won't let it get 'ta you.  It'll have to come through Sam Gamgee to hurt you, and that's not going to happen."

* * * * * 

       Aragorn pulled up the gelding at a fork on the narrow pathway above Imladris.  One fork led down and was a deception; the rising path, not descending until it rounded a curve, was the true one.  Holding his horse to stillness, the Ranger listened.  Here the cliffs were sheer and sound echoed misleadingly.  Faintly he could hear the heavy plodding hoof-beats of the Ringwraith's mount, its steps ringing against the earth with dull thuds, but he could not estimate its location.      

        Swallowing a curse, Aragorn leaned forward to stroke his gelding's neck reassuringly as the animal caught scent of the other, the not-horse that the Ringwraith rode.  The gelding's eyes rimmed with white as it sought to expel the smell of corruption from its nostrils.  Blowing, the horse obeyed its rider's instructions and set itself to climb the steep path, fearing if not understanding that terror came behind it.

       Aragorn let the gelding have his head, letting him move faster than was safe on such narrow, perilous path.  Suddenly the horse threw up his head and whinnied - a welcoming sound, not a frightened one.  The Ranger pulled it to the side of the path against the cliff and dismounted, knowing better than to trust the animal's weight on soft ground.  Aragorn cast his lean form to the ground and peered over the cliff-side.

       Far below him rode a great host of Elves, the setting sun reflecting on the points of their bannered spears.  The Master of Rivendell rode at their head, wearing armor he had not donned for an age of the world.  Even as Aragorn looked down, Elrond raised his dark head and met his foster son's eyes, and in the single smile that passed between them were volumes spoken.  

      The Ranger remounted and sent the gelding hurrying towards the host, less mindful now of the need for silence and stealth.  The animal slid on its haunches, Aragorn standing in the saddle, to struggle to a stop before Elrond's mount.  

       "How far behind you is it?" the Elf-lord asked.  Behind him, the Elves unsheathed their weapons.

      Aragorn shook his head, unable to provide precise information.  "Not far.  It comes quickly."

      Elrond nodded, then his face softened and he reached out to grasp the Ranger's arm.  "You are well?  And your brothers and the little ones?"

       Swiftly Aragorn recounted the last few days and saw Elrond's face tighten as he took in the news that Elrohir had not returned to them.  But there was no help for it, now.  "And the halflings?" the Elf-lord asked.

       "Merry's arm is healing fast and he seems unfazed by his accident.  Pippin is most pleased to be able to care for his cousin.  They are difficult to daunt, these hobbits."

       Elrond smiled, a slight lightening of the worry in his dark eyes.  "I have seen that myself."  Then his face tightened again.  "Frodo alerted me to the wraith's proximity.  He felt it well before it reached the valley.  I have had to sedate him."

     "Such sensitivity to evil will serve us well on our quest," responded Aragorn.  "But I am sorry it comes at such a cost to him."

      Elrond raised his head, ageless eyes distant.  "It comes," he said, the words carrying back among his folk.  "Ride by my side, Estel.  We must stop it from reaching the Ringbearer."

* * * * *   

       "Leave us alone!  Leave us alone!" cried Pippin, his voice high and frightened.  Merry dropped Pippin's cloak and cocked his arm to throw the dagger.  But the cast would go astray, he knew – not left-handed, the cast felt wrong before it left his fingers.

      The Man pulled off the last of the snares and gained his feet.  Blood dripped from the shallow wounds, staining his dirty clothes and skin.  Standing, he seemed enormous to the hobbits, impossibly large.  Snarling, he reached out for them.  

        Then his face stilled and stiffened, and his arm froze in mid-grasp.  The hobbits turned.  Inmara stood behind them; elven-quiet she had come and her ears were flat against her huge head and her great, chisel-like teeth bared.  She stretched her long neck over the hobbits' heads and shook her mane, great dark eyes narrowed on the Man.

      Merry fought down the sob in his throat, cradling his arm.  Inmara dipped her head and nuzzled their heads, blowing gently on their hair.  He and Pip edged back behind the pillars of her front legs, sheltered by her barrel.    The mercenary started to drop his arm and instantly her head was back up and those yellowed but strong teeth were but inches from his face.

       "Good horse, good horse," murmured Merry, rather idiotically.  Pippin glanced at him and laughed, a note of hysteria in his voice.  Very slowly and carefully, the soldier took a step backward, then when the old mare did nothing was watch, another.  Another, out of reach of those great teeth.  Then the Man turned and ran, crashing away into the underbrush.

       Merry slid down Inmara's leg and collapsed, the throbbing in his arm unbearable.  Pippin was at his side immediately, supporting his cousin until Merry could overcome the pain and regain himself.  Inmara nuzzled them both anxiously, though her delicately pointed ears remained upright, tracking the mercenary's retreat.

       After some little time, Merry held onto his cousin while Pippin helped him to his feet.  "Thank you, Inmara," the hobbits said softly, reaching up to stroke her muzzle, "for our lives.  A second time."

       The mare lipped their hands and blew sweet breath in their faces.

* * * * *      

       When Elladan and Elrohir found the halflings, the two were trying to gain Inmara's back by climbing a tree and crawling from it onto her.  The old mare would have lowered himself to the ground to allow them to mount, but Merry and Pippin wished to spare the old mare that.  The twins reined in their stallions to watch as Pippin tried to guide his cousin onto the mare's back, his arms tight around Merry's waist.  Inmara pressed herself against the trunk beneath them, holding herself still so that Merry could drop the short distance from the branch to her back.

         "May we help?" asked the twins together as they dismounted, eliciting a cry from the hobbits.  The two stared open-mouthed for a moment, then Pippin was swarming down the tree, scraping his hands and feet against the bark.  Elladan moved forward and caught Merry off the branch, saving the hobbit a painful climb down. The Elves laughed as the little ones wrapped their short arms around them, hugging them in joy and relief.

       Amidst cries of "Are you all right?" and "What happened to you?" the Elves and the hobbits eventually heard one another's stories.   Elladan and Elrohir had returned first to their destroyed camp and had heard the hobbits' cries and the Man's shouts from there.  Spurring their stallions to a dangerous run, they had raced to the source of the commotion, their bows and knives in their hands.  When they heard of the mercenary's intentions, Elrohir stood and clasped his hand around the hilt of his long knife, staring after the Man, anger evident on his fair face.

       "It is well that Inmara found you when she did," he said at length.  "I had much time to observe these Men and believe that they are the worst sort of hired soldier.  Rough and cruel and taking pleasure in the giving of pain and death."  The Elf's eyes darkened further.  "Just the sort that Saruman would employ."

       "Which our father needs to know," continued Elladan with a concerned glance at his twin.  "We will rest this night and return to Imladris in the morning.  It will be a long ride for you, my friends.  Can you endure?"

       Merry and Pippin looked at each other and thought of groaning supper-tables and feather beds and warmth and safety.  "Can't we go tonight?" asked Pippin plaintively.

* * * * *

        "There is no safety here," Elrond was saying, as the Elven host gathered close.  "We cannot come against it directly; the strength of its master is in it."  The Elf-lord closed his eyes briefly as he sought the cold, empty darkness of the Nazgûl with his mind.   Very close, now...  Its nearness caused him pain, a sharp gnawing hurt in his soul, and he wondered if this pain was a faint echo of what the Ringbearer must be suffering.  

       Elrond opened his eyes again.  By his side, Estel sat his horse quietly.  "Further up this way there is a narrow place, steep-sided and sheer," the Elf-lord continued, seeing his host nod as they knew the place.  "It is not the Ford of Bruinen, but perhaps it can serve as well."

      "Roll boulders down upon the evil thing," breathed Aragorn.

      "Push it off the cliff," added Glorfindel, a fierce eagerness on his face.  Beneath him, Asfaloth snorted and tossed his proud head.

       "Yes," said Elrond.  "Send it empty and shapeless back to its master, until it can find a new form to wear and a new mount to ride."  The hurt he was feeling abruptly intensified.  "Hurry," he commanded them.  "It is coming."

* TBC *


End file.
